Flamming Summer!
by Chetwynd
Summary: As if Tanin and Sturm's matchmaking and a murderous tiger's maiming attempts were's enough, now Raistlin confronts a new, insidious threat. The most perilous danger in all his two lives! R&R.
1. A rude awakening

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening.

Palin Majere was very, very happy. At last Dalamar had agreed to take him on a tour to the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, former home of his deceased Uncle Raistlin! His father Caramon, who was _not_ happy in the least —he knew about the squishy things his late brother had produced in his not so sane attempt to create life... Why? It was so easy to do it the usual way... but no, Raistlin had to do things in his own twisted way...— was being a pain in the dark elf's backside; he didn't want to see Raistlin's study, nor his bedroom, nor his bathroom, nor his cupboard full of...

"Palin, don't go near the lab's door," Dalamar was saying with his mouth full of the afternoon snack his apprentices had prepared and served —he was called 'the elven Enslaver' among them—. He was so happy that Caramon was silenced at last! "The undead warding it is a nasty one. I tried to persuade him to give me the key, but the damned wraith bit me!"

"All right, Dalamar," Palin said, his curiosity aroused. His father and his friend Tanis always claimed how remarkably similar he was to his Uncle, and he had of course inherited his snoopy nature. Thus, he left the two men and went directly to the lab's door. "Hi there, spirit guardian."

"Ayup, livin' un. Has tha' got a fag? Me salary ne'er lasts me through t'month and fags're expensive, yer know!" the undead replied in its hollow, dead voice.

"No, sorry. I don't smoke."

"Pity, but thee does reet, young 'un. It'll be t'death o' me. 'ere, take this." It passed him a little piece of parchment.

"'Invitation to enter Raistlin Majere's laboratory. Valid only to White Robes-to-be.' What's this?"

"What it says. Yer invited to enter t'lab."

"Wow! And Dalamar said you were nasty!"

"Huh! Nasty un's 'im."

"But he said you bit him."

"Course I bit 'im! Soddin' elf didn't want to raise me paycheck. C'mon, enter now." The heavy wooden door opened and the young man, too deep in the claws of his inherited snoopiness, entered the laboratory.

"Hey, who...?" He bumped into the closed door. "It's so dark here..."

_Then come to the light_

And a gentle pinkish brightness shone in the distance.

"The lab's larger than I thought."

_Come to the light_

"Okay, if you say so..." The foolish young man walked briskly to the shine and then... there was light, lots of light... pinkish, of course.

_Surprise! _Five draconian heads howled in delight. _You've won the prize to the nephew-become-bait game show!_

"Oh, my. Why didn't I inherit my Uncle's paranoia too?"

* * *

In another place of the incorrectly called Abyss, the three god-cousins of Magic were pulling their hairs in anger and frustration.

"How dare she interfere in the Test of one of our own!" Solinari the white screeched.

"Technically, it hadn't begun yet, but the spirit is there" Lunitari replied a bit calmer than her hysterical fair cousin, after all she knew the young Majere would have finished in the White Robes' clutches. "And it's not as if the elders never interfere in our affairs."

"She's right, cousin. They nag us constantly, but this is no excuse to let my mother get her way," Nuitari added vehemently.

"But what could we do? The last time we tried to oppose her she gave us a sound hiding."

"Bingo!" the neutral goddess exclaimed. "I know what we'll do! Let's go to call one of my pals... Here. Hello, Miiro. It's Luni. Yes, we need your help right now. Yes, the five-headed bitch again... What, you've retired! But, but... Oh, yes, you've a replacement... _Who!_ Oh, dear, this is not good... Okay. See you soon. Bye." She turned off her magical cell phone and regarded her cousins gravely. "All right, boys. I've got good news and bad news..."

"The good news first, please?" Solinari whispered.

"The avatar of the Miiro will help us."

"And the bad news?"

"We've to awaken him first."

They all groaned.

* * *

Lunitari impatiently kicked the slumbering figure at her feet. "Wake up, you cretin!"

"Fiv minits more, mommy" the ball slurred again. He was having a very _nice_ dream about Revered Daughters and baths.

"No. Come on, wake up!" A nasty boot in his groin did the job.

"Ow! What the...? Ow! That hurt, you bitch!"

"Consider it a lesson for your lasciviousness."

"Pardon? For the gods' sake I was _dreaming_ and since when did you become a defender of the purity of thought? It isn't in your portfolio."

"Anyway, I achieved my purpose."

"To maim me?"

"No, silly. To wake you up so that you can be re-hired as Miiro and go to Takhisis' realm to save your nephew."

"My nephew? How has he ended up with Takhisis?"

"She tempted him into her realm and then trapped him to lure you. I know he's a bit dumb, but he was going to take his Test and in the end he'll become the most powerful mage in Krynn's history."

"How so?"

"I don't know the specifics, it was Solinari's plan."

"Of course," Raistlin drawled. "And you want me to go to... save him from Takhisis? Sorry, but I'm not crazy enough. You know, last time we met, the turd wanted to eat me up and I'm sure she still wants to do so. Nothing could force me to go to find my gruesome end at her mouths."

"Not even redemption?"

"What? Pah! I don't want redemption, I want to go back to sleep!"

"Then I think we'll have to resort to desperate measures!"

* * *

Lying on a black stone altar in the depths of Takhisis' realm, Palin was deadly bored. At first the sight of the dark goddess preparing her pots and pans –she wanted to eat his uncle al dente- had been amusing, but as eternity passed it had lost the novelty and become quite dull. 

"He's taking his time," the young man commented.

The goddess nodded. "Yes, I'm beginning to wonder if he'll appear at all."

"Of course he'll come!" Palin replied encouragingly. The deity seemed a bit despondent after arranging her utensils for the billionth time and he didn't want sad people around him. The fact that the arrival of his uncle would be the precursor of his own death didn't worry him too much. _Always look for the bright side,_ his mother said often to him. So he did: he was going to know his uncle in person albeit for a very short time and he was probably the only mortal ever to witness the wide variety of pots and pans Takhisis had in her abyssal kitchen.

"That cooking advice you gave me is very useful, Palin, but, you know, I'll have to kill you with this wicked-looking butcher's knife if Raistlin pokes his nose here."

He shrugged. "I know. Don't worry, I'm still a very little bit angry with you for that invitation trick, but I know you cannot help being a schizophrenic egomaniac that only thinks of conquering Krynn and eating my uncle, even if your plans are always thwarted by the most unlikely beings. Thousands of years of frustration do that."

"Oh, that was sooooo kind," Takhisis sniffed while she wiped surreptitiously her eyes with a black tea towel. "I'm really tempted to keep you here. I would do with a friendly word now and then. You know, my subjects are all of them a bunch of ungrateful bastards, always complaining about the working conditions, the fees and all that crap. They even dare to complain about the state of my Abyss; they say it's too pinkish!"

"Well, maybe it's a bit girlish with all that pink and laces and bows, but don't mind them."

"You're a real sweetie."

* * *

"That's foul play!" Raistlin snorted angrily. "A threat to sue me for breach of contract!" 

Lunitari waved said contract in her hand, out of his reach, with a mischievous smile. "I'm hearing the lawyers coming this way, my dear, to throw the book at you," she said in a sing-song voice that grated on his nerves.

"I hate lawyers more than anything in the multiverse! I still have nightmares about the attempt of the Dark Queen to obtain my custody after the Abyss affair."

The goddess shrugged. "You know, all Krynnish lawyers end up in Takhisis' realm, so she has the best at her disposal. Uncle Paladine nearly became indebted hiring a decent defendant for your case and had a very hard time finding one that was not at her service."

"But-but. You cannot force me, you are a divinity of _neutrality_!" he sputtered. "You believe in free will and all that!"

"Yes, of course, but there are always exceptions and you're the one."

"I haven't my spells or my Staff. I can't face her disarmed, bereft of my power."

"I see you have the Blue Star," she pointed.

"What good will a ring with a randomly shining blue stone do me? I tried to take the useless thing off, but it wouldn't budge. I even cut my finger off to get rid of it, but the finger re-grew with the damned ring around it!"

"Such is the power of the Greater Balance. You never read the small print at the contract, did you?"

"No," Raistlin admitted grudgingly.

"And about you being disarmed, behold your new weapon!" Lunitari gestured theatrically towards the two figures, one in white, the other in black, that appeared out of thin air. The dark one was carrying a blue-bound book that he presented sternly to the mage.

"Here, take the ultimate spellbook of Fistandantilus," Nuitari drawled. "I had it at home, away from your paws, but now the circumstances have changed."

Raistlin took it avidly and nearly crushed his own feet when he let it fall.

"It's heavier than it looks," the dark god said with a false innocent tone and equally false smile.

Muttering curses under his breath, the mortal crouched, opened the cover and began to read. As he read on, his eyes widened gradually and his face took on a reddish tone, then a greenish one.

"I can't do these spells!" he exclaimed, wild-eyed.

"Why not?" Solinari picked up the book and took a quick look. He blanched. "Nuitari, how do you want him to fight your mother with sex magic!"

"Oops! Wrong book. Ah, here it is," he said offering the human a similar looking book which the god took from one of the secret pockets in his robes. "Don't look at me that way. Am I to blame for what the old goat wrote in his spellbooks? You know, he had twenty-eight levels of the Pervert Sorcerer prestige class..."

"Nui, give up the roleplaying terminology, will you," his female cousin cut him off brusquely.

"All right, all right," he mumbled.

"Are these better suited?" Solinari asked Raistlin. The human nodded, ensorcelled by the magic words.

"They will do."

* * *

If the innumerable defeats she had suffered in earlier times weren't clue enough to Takhisis' lack of strategic thought, the sound thrashing she was receiving at Palin's hands at the game of Khas –a Krynnish game similar to chess- they played while waiting for Raistlin to appear were the unquestionable proof. 

"Checkmate!" the young man said, trying to hide a yawn behind his hand. He had tried to _let_ her win several times, but the reckless goddess seemed intent only in "eating" as many pieces as quickly as possible. That is, she was a complete disaster. No wonder she never won any wars...

He heard a polite cough and saw a man wearing slightly out-of-fashion black robes. The young man was amazed at the resemblance between them, even though he was taller, wider, healthier and some more –ers than the man in black.

"Raistlin, at last!" The Queen of Darkness rubbed her hands together in delight. She took the wicked-looking butcher's knife. "I'm quite hungry, you lazy morsel. Where were you?"

"I was lost. I took a wrong turn and ended in Bytopia."

"Oh, don't worry, the path is very badly indicated. My subjects refused to replace the lost signposts after you nearly destroyed them all during your last visit."

"Hello, Uncle Raistlin. I'd never have imagined you were a vandal."

"I'm not a vandal, I'm a rebel," the older man replied with a touch of annoyance. "Come here, Palin. We are out of here in a moment."

Takhisis laughed evilly and brandished the gleaming weapon wildly. "I think not, my dear Raistlin. I'm going to cook you until you're done to a turn, then eat you, savouring every little bit, and your nephew is going to help me to do it. Then, he'll stay here to keep me company until the time for conquest comes again; his advice is very welcome."

The archmage turned to his nephew, horrified. "You're going to help her eat me!"

Palin's brow furrowed deeply. "Of course not, Uncle, I'm not a cannibal and it'd be kind of... I don't know... incestuous... We are family. She means I'm helping her to _cook_ you."

"So eating me is incestuous, but cooking me isn't? You've spent too much time with her. I say come here!" Raistlin gestured firmly next to him.

The young man obeyed the harsh words of his elder with a sad expression.

"I'm sorry, Takhisis. I won't be able to teach you the recipe of Otik's famous spiced potatoes..."

Unexpectedly, the goddess lunged at the archmage, knife cutting the thick pinkish air. Raistlin raised his hands, moving them in a blurring dance, muttering the words of powerful magic.

Then the world became blue.

When he could see again, he saw his nephew laying on the ground, the wicked knife jutting out his chest. Takhisis was walking around blindly, possibly more affected than the human by the light blast because of her godlike acute senses.

Raistlin knelt down next to the pale corpse of Palin.

"Just my luck. I come to rescue him and he dies in a freak accident! Damn ring!"

"I'm not dead yet, Uncle," the young man whispered in a feeble voice. "I've time enough for the famous last words."

"Gods, no! Out with them then," the archmage said resignedly.

"Say to my parents and my brothers and my sisters and the neighbours and my friends at the school and..."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I will say it to everybody, but say it quickly before you die!"

"Ah, say to them that I love them very much and that... that I was not snooping."

"Snooping? How so?"

Palin ignored his question and continued with his last monologue: "And I love you too, even though my father only loved me because when he looked at me he saw you and droned on and on about how alike we were and that I am what you should have been and even though I don't know you and you don't know me and I think you are a bossy-boots and quite rude and a vandal." Raistlin nearly cut him off, wanting to point out that he wouldn't have been bossy and rude if the boy hadn't got into huge trouble, but thought it would be cruel even by his usual standards. "And I want you not to break my father's heart saying something spiteful, because if you do so I will come back as a ghost and haunt you for the rest of your life."

His uncle refrained from telling him that commanding undead entities was his speciality.

"Are you already finished?" he said softly. Takhisis was standing near a black altar full of cooking utensils, likely trying to pinpoint his position by the sound of his voice.

"A last advice, Uncle. Go to Lady Crysania. She can help you."

_Sure._

"Something more?"

"No, no," Palin murmured. Closing his eyes he said: "Thus, I die." And then he died with a peaceful look that no one with a butcher's knife poking into his chest —that surely hurt like hell— should have.

The soul of the young Majere hovered a moment over his lifeless body, a sad look on his transparent face, then shrugged, smiled and waved goodbye to his uncle, disappearing into the highs of the Abyss.

"You've deprived me of the only kind company I've had in a millennia and you'll pay for it!" Takhisis hissed, becoming instantly the five-headed dragon.

"Gah! I see you've not treated your nasty case of bad breath."

Roaring, the goddess was ready to snap at him, but a new flare of stinging blue light spurted from the stone of the ring and blinded her again.

"Damn!"

* * *

A sudden weight robbed him of breath. So unexpected the attack was that he shrieked as he fought to free himself from the enveloping prison that shrouded him. He heard a loud thud and a giggle. 

"Hey, Palin, Mother will sock you one if you tear the sheets," a childish voice quipped.

_Palin?_

Forcing himself to calm down, he lifted up the sheets and peeked outside to see a pair of young girls, one sitting on the wooden floor, the other standing, looking at him curiously. He frowned and the girls giggled some more.

"You threw yourself on me!" he accused the sitting one, the youngest. She ignored his withering glare and laughed openly.

"Well, we couldn't have you sleeping the whole week! I thought the only thing you needed to return to us was a bit of prodding."

He snorted indignantly, but said nothing.

"Father was right, Dezra. Look, he _seems_ more mature, even if he shrieks like a little girl!" the other smirked.

"Well, at least he doesn't snore like a dragon anymore." Both girls went to the door of the small room. "We're going to tell father you're awake."

The girls thought he was Palin! _It'd better be some kind of weird dream._ Dream or reality, however, it became worse with the arrival of Caramon and his wife Tika, who ran to take her 'son' in her arms sobbing hysterically.

"My baby, my baby!"

Raistlin's eyes widened in horror as he was rocked, petted, patted, caressed by his crying 'parents'-and pinched by the girls. He was astonished; not even his twin had recognized him, all of them believed firmly he was Palin. Was all the family shortsighted? He knew he was smaller, lighter and less robustly-built than his late nephew, not by much but noticeably so. Nonetheless, none of them saw it.

"What happened?" he asked when things had calmed down a bit.

"Don't you remember, my son?" Caramon said gently. "Dalamar said that you passed your Test! I was very scared when the spectral guardian told us that you'd gone through the door and into Ra..." He glanced nervously to Tika, then corrected himself: "your uncle's lab. It wouldn't let us pass. It even bit Dalamar again when he tried to force an entrance, but some hours later it opened the door and there you were, unconscious on the floor of the lab, with your white robes." His eyes shone.

_White? How dare them to put me into the white robes? And _my Test_ my ass! Dalamar has become a master at sorting out shoddingly his blunders._

"I wasn't snooping" was all he said absently.

"Of course you weren't, my boy," his twin replied, patting his hand as if he didn't believe him at all. "When you're recovered, you'll have to go to Wayreth for some ceremony or other."

_Like hell I'm going to that old crocks' haunt._

A long last later, Tika and the girls went out of the room, leaving the two men alone. As soon as the door closed, Caramon crushed him in a bear hug. When the younger man had nearly passed out through suffocation, he loosened the iron snare around his chest, but didn't let him go.

"Dalamar told me about the black hemline... I didn't want to worry your mother. I know that you were tempted and nearly fell, but you didn't. I'm very proud."

"Um..."

"Say, my son, did you see _him_? Caramon asked him in a conspiratorial tone.

"Who?"

"Raistlin!" Said mage was becoming increasingly nervous as his twin's hand caressed his cheek in a tender way. The eyes of the warrior were unfocused, far away.

"Er... No, I didn't see him. Why should I? He's dead."

The great warrior grabbed his shoulder so hard it was painful and shook him violently. "Never say that! You know that's not true. He lives in you!" His teeth rattling, Raistlin feared that he had been discovered. Caramon was very angry at him, but, unexpectedly, hugged him again stroking his long hair. "I've told you that I wanted you to have his name, but your mother wouldn't allow it. It makes no difference to me what name you bear, I know the truth; I've always known you'd come back to me..."

So Palin was right; Caramon loved his son because he bore an uncanny resemblance to his twin. He felt a wave of sadness and empathy for the deceased youth, and a bit of guilt too. He was the reason his nephew had been lured into the Abyss by Takhisis and then killed, and also the reason he wasn't loved by his father as he should be. Then, he decided he should honour Palin's memory the best way he could: by passing himself off as him and doing great things.

What's more, Tika hated his guts and wouldn't hesitate to beat him to death with one of her iron skillets the moment she knew the truth, and Caramon... He shuddered when he thought how his twin would react if he knew...

Yes, better living as Palin than dying indignantly as Raistlin.


	2. Atowering We Go!

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Chapter 2: A-towering We Go!

After only several days lodging in Solace, Raistlin had concluded that the most sensible thing he could do was to hit the road and never return again; so there he was on his way to the Tower of Wayreth with his two 'elder brothers', Tanin and Sturm.

The most difficult task Raistlin had encountered at the Majere's had not been, as he had previously supposed, impersonating Palin, but steering clear of his twin and refraining from murdering those nieces of his. He had _really _come to fear meeting Caramon alone —Come on, the man was insanely obsessed with him!— and the sisters were nothing but fiends disguised as girls that had been born with the sole purpose of making Palin's —and his— life a living hell; they had thrown dirty water on his bed only to shout; "Palin is such a baby. He's wet his bed again!" from the rooftops; hid his only robe in the most unlikely places; filled his boots with sharp pebbles; replaced the ink from his inkpot with mud, and so on. His 'parents', of course, had done nothing but smile at this and speak of 'sisterly love' whenever he had tried to complain, then told him to be more tolerant of them. As if! Therefore, he had a really hard time restraining himself from throttling the little imps in their sleep.

It was obvious that not one member of his family knew Palin all that well —except for the things that infuriated him, on the part of Laura and Dezra. When the brothers had returned home from some adventure or other, they had mentioned something about him shrinking a bit during his Test, but nothing more. Oh, they all were very proud of him, although they had a most peculiar way of showing it!

No wonder Palin had been so... singular.

Reaching into one of the secret pockets of his white —he shuddered— robe, he took out a letter addressed to him, that he had found the first time he put on the clothes. It read:

Dear **Palin**.

We had a row on this matter, but in the end we decided it was best if you donned the white robes. You see, Soli has not abandoned his White-Robe-being-the-Most-Powerful-Wizard-in-the-World foolishness. He's upset because he thinks it's his turn after Nui had Fistandantilus and yourself (Magius the Top doesn't count). Thus, for _your_ sake, all you wear from now on will become white the moment you put it on.

Best regards,

Luni

At the bottom of the letter, however, there was a note scribbled in a different handwriting.

I do _not_ agree with my cousins, thus the black hemline to show my discord. And don't worry, I'll be waiting for you.

Nuitari

PS: You'll find a token of my goodwill under the table.

And, as the god of dark magic's note had claimed, under the table there had been the ultimate spellbook of Fistandantilus, considerably lighter. Delighted, he had got into position, ready to spend an entire afternoon in blessed study, only to discover it was the OTHER ultimate spellbook of Fistandantilus. At least the last empty pages had been useful to transcribe his own spells when he had filled every single one in Palin's spellbook.

Nevertheless, his journey to Wayreth was quite enjoyable, even though his nephews tried to 'make a man of him' in every inn and tavern they stopped at, and all the wenches they tried to pair him with seemed, inexplicably, very happy to comply.

"Palin, that waitress was devouring you with her eyes, you know, and she was a beautiful bird," Sturm had commented after the last break at a grotty tavern.

"Sorry to disappoint you, brother, but I'm a bit more selective," he had snorted. He had started to feel that strange headache he got whenever his nephews insisted on speaking of sex.

"You are a bleeding prude," both Tanin and Sturm had concluded at the same time.

Even so, when they weren't nagging him about his non-existent sex life, the brothers were rather amiable and amusing, very different from his smothering twin. Tanin was a bit bossy, but that was included in the 'elder brother' role, and he was not even unreasonably so. Sturm, on the other hand, was a funny scatterbrain that knew more blue jokes and stories than a dirty old kender.

Be that as it may, he had managed to reach the wandering tower without being stripped of his 'childhood', to the eternal distress of the brothers, who, being unable to do as they wished due to the vows they had pledged upon joining the Knighthood as squires, wanted their 'little brother' to enjoy his freedom.

Upon reaching the ever-roaming Wayreth Forest, the Majeres' were received by an apprentice that showed the mage to a room to wait for 'Master Dalamar', and shooed the brothers into the barn —the only place non-wizards deserved, according to magic users.

After waiting for a reasonable time —no less than five minutes—, Raistlin/Palin began to get impatient and angry at the dark elf's tardiness. However, every thought of magicking his former apprentice into an hourglass departed with the apparition of a huge signboard and an arrow with the words 'Power be here!' in bright luminous letters. He knew it to be a trap as big and obvious as Takhisis' ego, but, as usual, his snoopiness switched on and overthrew logic and common sense. Thus, he followed the materializing signs to the deepest dungeons of Wayreth Tower.

"Um, this seems familiar," he mused once a trapdoor closed over his head. It was exceedingly dark, but he was unafraid —it was not bedtime yet. He was ready to cast a light spell when a raspy voice came from the darkness.

"Welcome to my domain, young one," it drawled.

The voice was _very _familiar, indeed!

"Oh, it's you," Raistlin sighed dejectedly. He had hoped for something interesting, not this.

"What? Oh, no! What are you doing here _again_, runt?" the voice snapped, gloomy.

"_Shirak_."

A small sphere of light showed him a small, damp room carved into the tower's stone. In the centre there was a simple table with two chairs, and sitting in the one opposite to him, was a decaying humanoid. He was glaring at the mage balefully with his red-abyssal-lights-passing-as-eyes. The scene brought past memories to Raistlin, but he noted a difference —possibly because the first and only time there, he had been terrified—, such as an obscene quantity of creased and dirty parchment scattered over the chamber floor. All of them seemed full of the same crooked scrawl.

Although the... being seemed angry, an interested spark danced in his 'eyes' as he studied the newcomer.

"You are different... not as runty as the last time," it commented.

"That's what happens when a crazed middle-aged woman armed with deadly skillets gets obsessed with fatting you up like a turkey," Raistlin sighed. "Or perhaps it is that you, like the rest of Krynn, suffer from optical disability."

The thing at the table shrugged bonily.

"Let's make a deal, eh? Your unfairly youthful body in exchange for... mmm... let's see... immortality. That's it! Immortality!"

"Sorry, Fistandantilus, but I think I'll pass. I don't wish to spend eternity as a rotting corpse," the younger archmage snorted. "By the way, what are you doing alive—I mean, un-dead? I killed you in the past!"

Fistandantilus scratched his not quite bald skull in a thoughtful gesture.

"I'm not sure. I don't remember anything about anyone killing me... Maybe it's a temporal paradox, you know. Did you travel in company of kender?"

Raistlin mumbled something unintelligible.

"I assume that's a 'yes'."

"_I _did _not_. It was that imbecile Par-Salian!"

The wizened mage shrugged again. He opened the horrible hole only a very objective and coldblooded person would have called a mouth, to remark something. Suddenly, however, a shadowy form leapt from the corner it had been lurking in; it's terrible jaws wide open, dribbling fetid drool, and clamped them viciously on Fistandantilus' head.

"Ouch," he said, without too much spirit.

Raistlin recoiled in abject terror. Perched on the lich's skull with an unhallowed hold, a very dead bunny glared at him with myxomatosious red eyes all the while gnawing with sharp incisors. Maybe in some age past —possibly the Age of Dreams—, the fur had been white, shiny, and soft to the touch, in the way bunnies usually look in order to lure their predators. Now, however, where it had fur at all, it was dirty and matted and… rotting. Like the rest of its body.

It was a zombie bunny.

"Excuse me," mumbled the dead wizard. Sitting down on one of the chairs, he produced out of nowhere a flat device that opened like a book but not quite so, put it on the table, pressed some yielding part —which made the thing reply with weird sounds some seconds later—, and began to hit it with his bony fingers in a easy way that bespoke of habit. The soft light coming from the device bathed his putrid features with a ghostly brightness, and made his empty eyes sparkle as they regarded the young man. "I'm sorry, but I must slash you."

The casual threat snapped Raistlin from his terror-induced daze. Wrenching his gaze from the monstrosity with ex-fluffy ears, he glared disdainfully at the undead wizard, then smirked.

"And how do you intend to do it? I bested you once, I can do it again. Easily…"

"Oh, I didn't mean that way," the lich cut him off, never stopping his clicking hits on the device. "You see, some time ago I suffered from verbal incontinence and called Nuitari a nerd and a geek to his back. The freak heard me, nevertheless, and cursed me with these beasts. They are called 'bunny plots'. Oh, yes, there are several of them, you would do well in keeping an eye on where you step. And since I'm one of the undead, they are too. Only to ensure they won't die of old age and I escape from my 'punishment', you know. Now and then, they attack me, and when they manage to bite me, I must write a story inspired by them."

"Can't you simply destroy them?"

"Oh, I tried, but then where there was one, another two appear."

"Then, you are going to write about me being slashed?"

"That's just right." He took a pot from under the table, rummaged about its insides with his almost skeletal hand and took out a little piece of parchment. He read it and sighed heavily. "Just my luck. This one is sooo typical. Sorry again, young man, but I must slash you with Dalamar," the ancient wizard explained mournfully while he waved the piece of yellowed and dirty parchment.

An incongruous image of Fistandantilus wielding an unbelievably stiffened Dalamar in his bony hands, and trying to harm him, brandishing the elf like an awfully balanced two-handed sword came to his mind. That, apart from nearly breaking his steely control, and making him roar with laughter, reminded him that the head of the Black Robes was possibly in his study wondering where in the abyss Palin was. That and the fact that the lich was completely around the bend.

"Through this lapdog," the undead indicated with his head, already sheathed in a shroud of dead bunny drool, the strange device he hit with his claws, "I can put my stories in a sort of library on a plane called the Internet, where other beings also affected by this curse can read them. They are supposed to review the work of the rest, these beings, but most of them suffer from severe shyness or laziness. However, a month ago I met one who was willing to date me. That's why I need a decent body, not this rotting mess!" The last remaining bit of his nose splashed the device when he shook his head (and bunny) vehemently.

Raistlin, who had inched stealthily towards the ladder while Fistandantilus spoke, shrugged, all the while looking for rabid zombie bunnies. "That's not my problem, old ruin. I need my body for my own goals."

Fistandantilus regarded him through half-closed eyes. Well, he tried to, but he was not too successful because his eyelids had rotted away some centuries ago. "This time I'll make you the _uke_!" he hissed, his voice full of poison. The bunny gnawed more frantically in response.

Instead of laughing 'till the tears ran down his cheeks at the lich's helplessness as he wanted to, the young man forced a sneering half-smile to his lips, and, with a last scornful glance, climbed the ladder. Once outside the stinking chamber, he closed the trapdoor, warded it with the most powerful locking spell he knew, and painted a big red cross on it. In addition, he spread out over it a neat parchment with the following warning: Danger! Pervy undead hazard. Do not trespass unless you want your body snatched from you and your soul bored to death.

He thought about the 'pervy' part and almost crossed it out. After all, Fistandantilus had not said anything about writing pornography with him as the main character, as would have been characteristic of such a randy old goat; he had only mentioned bizarre transmutation stories where people became weapons. However, he still bore a grudge against him for sucking up his lifeforce during the Test. Therefore, the warning stayed as it was.

Whistling a merry tune he had heard some decades ago in Neraka, he went to meet his former apprentice.

If Dalamar was displeased with him for his wanderings, he didn't show it. At least not to his face; although the 'I'm-going-to-throttle-you' gestures he made when he thought Palin/Raistlin was not looking were very revealing.

"Nice to meet you again, young magus," said the dark elf once they were alone in the Black Robe's rooms. He gestured towards a bottle and several fine glasses on a little table. "Would you like some light, elven wine?"

Raistlin knew all too well Dalamar's tactic of intoxicating his victims with his 'light, elven wine' before a hard interrogation; the ex-Silvanesti was an incompetent at discerning the human psyche —not that he was much better at the elven one—, so he had to resort to little dirty tricks like this one. Knowing that a retort about where he could put his bottle would be uncharacteristic of his mild nephew, the archmage swallowed his venom and replied instead: "No, thank you. I'm teetotal."

"Oh? I would think otherwise with your father's history," the elf mused, with his typical lack of tact.

"Well, what do you want of me?" Raistlin nearly snapped.

He saw as the Black Robe tried to maintain his cool, but was obviously taken aback by the bold question. After some moments, however, Dalamar smirked. "You are rather like your uncle, young man. And not only physically. After our meeting in Palanthas I thought you hadn't much spine, but it seems it's not so; you bark like him. Very much like him."

_Bark and bite, you dork._

"Should it upset me, Dalamar?"

"Er... I suppose so... Um... So... Well, I wanted to propose to you, with you being so like your late uncle, er... come to Palanthas to be my apprentice," the elf said, eyeing him warily.

Raistlin's smile was frighteningly fierce. "I would be honoured, Dalamar. After all, _he_ would have wanted me to take possession of his Tower."

As he spoke, the ex-Silvanesti paled and froze, his slanted eyes as wide as saucers. The dark elf tried to say something several times, opening and closing his mouth like a beach-stranded fish. The archmage found it a great effort to not burst out laughing at that stricken face and, full of wicked glee, thought about putting one of Fistandantilus' spells to good use. He schooled his features into Palin's mild smile and patted the shocked elf's shoulder amiably. "Don't worry, I was kidding! Never fear, I've no desire to become a Black Robe; my mum would pan my head open and Father would have a fit." Well, that last one was a tempting thought...

"Really? For–for a moment I'd swear... you were the _shalafi_. I thought he had possessed your bo–body..." Dalamar stammered. He drunk his glass of wine in one gulp, his hands still shaking, and sighed, relieved.

Inside, Raistlin was cackling in mirth. He disliked the smug expression his ex-apprentice usually wore on his face and enjoyed wiping it off; Dalamar was most handsome when scared... _I didn't think Dalamar as handsome, did I? Argh, get out, get out, you filthy thought! _

"Ha, ha... Everybody says I do a great impersonation of Uncle Raistlin," he mentioned aloud, all the while mentally chastising himself.

"They're right, you do." the Black Robe laughed weakly, having another swing at the wine. After a tense silence, he added: "Um, you may leave. Justarius is probably waiting for you."

Raistlin blinked, confused.

"That's all?"

The dark elf glowered at him, and nearly growled as he swallowed the remaining wine.

"Yes, I made you come here to tempt you, as is expected of me. Now, go away, young man. I will meet you and the Heads of the Conclave in a moment."

After a somewhat poisonous glance from the Head of Black Robes, Raistlin shrugged and finally left. A half-asleep apprentice who had been waiting for him in the corridor guided him to the rooms where he was to meet Justarius and the Head of the White Robes, someone with the strange name of Dumb.

Actually, the Head of the White Robes was dumb. Master Dumb in fact, just as Justarius was. And Dalamar too.

While they were waiting for the dark elf to arrive, the older mages offered him cookies and tea, and asked him about the weather in Solace and how his family was and other exasperating trivialities. They were amiable in an unsettled sort of way, chattering like old windbags, all the while looking at him out of the corners of their eyes as if they didn't believe he was real. None broached a minimally interesting topic and he grew more deadly bored by the second.

And so, there he was, pondering the best way to silence the pair of blabbering old coots, when Dalamar staggered into the room, bottle of elven wine in hand, and completely plastered. His usually nimble feet stumbled, one stepping on the other, until he reached and fell on the armchair prepared to that effect. As the three humans watched —two indifferently, one incredulously—, he filled a teacup to the brim, all the while slagging someone off in a muttered Silvanesti. To judge by the colourful terms he used, the dark elf referred to his former _shalafi _and some joker nephew of his or other. Raistlin understood everything, although refrained from commenting; seeing how his former apprentice drowned his sorrows in that dreadful beverage was fun enough.

At that moment, Justarius decided that the presence of a drunken elf justified the abandonment of idle chitchat. Ever the Head of the Conclave, the lame tried to question the young mage about his Test without giving the impression he hadn't the foggiest idea of what had transpired in the Tower of Palanthas. He tried to be shrewd, really, he did, but he had the subtlety of a dwarf cleric of Kiri-Jolith charging against hooting goblins. Poor Justarius was nothing like Par-Salian, who in the old times would have managed to sell a broomstick to a desert barbarian and even be thanked for it.

Raistlin, however, not ensnared by the Red Robe's not very deceitful verbal traps, decided to amuse himself and launched on an epic tale of magic, with a side of sob story included. There wasn't a jot of truth in it; not even a kender would have believed such tall story. Nevertheless, the three Heads of the Conclave of the Orders of High Sorcery fell for it. Even the part with the furry tiny dragons with an aesthete complex. When he finished, the big black human and the elf were crying. Dalamar had an excuse though; he was completely pissed.

Clearing his throat, Justarius spoke.

"Thus, your uncle saved you from Takhisis." The younger man nodded, torn between adding a new grandiloquent fib or leaving it at that. Some hours ago he would have thought it to be a great risk for his charade, but now he was toying with the idea of telling them his own version of the War of the Lance. He had always wanted to explain his theory about why Sturm was so stuck-up. "That was very brave on his part."

"Yes, it was," he echoed mournfully. And _it was_, facing a goddess that wanted to eat you was incredibly brave. Stupid too, of course, but some men cannot choose between dangerous bravery/stupidity and safe cowardice/common sense. Possibly because there are gods involved.

"My _shalafi _wash a verry cor-coru-cou, pah, had a lot of gutss," babbled Dalamar, standing riskily on his feet. "He wash ash ugly ash shin and alwaysh wash in a shitty mood, but got ballsh. Do you know what he did to me? He put hish hand on my chest and did… This!" And ripped the front of his robes before anyone could stop him. At the third attempt, though.

Raistlin felt embarrassed and a little angry; he had intended it to be a punishment, not an excuse for Dalamar to indulge in his flasher vice, for gods' sake! In addition, he resented being called ugly. He was not! He was merely aesthetically challenged. Nevertheless, he stilled his hand as it inched towards the spell component pouch, remembering he would have his revenge on the Silvanesti very, very soon.

Fortunately, Justarius and his dumb mate seemed as appalled as the archmage was, and, already satisfied with the pack of lies Raistlin had fed them, ended the meeting despite the dark elf's insistence on retelling his sad story as an uncovered traitor.

Raistlin meet his 'brothers' in the barn. They were trying to get off with a white robed elf despite the fact it was a 'he' and not a 'she', as the Majeres' firmly thought. Since their intentions were innocent —at least he hoped so—, he didn't bother to clarify that the expression they thought so cute was one of pure loathing.

"You seem happy, Palin," Sturm commented after blowing a kiss to the enraged wizard. The latter let out a string of insults in Qualinesti, but none of the warrior brothers understood anything. "She has a rather melodious voice, hasn't she?"

"Yes, my brother, she has. I wish I had paid attention to Tanis' lessons," sighed Tanin, waving goodbye to 'her' from his saddle. Since they turned their horses towards the appearing trail throughout Wayreth Forest, neither saw how the white mage had to be tackled by his colleagues to prevent him fireballing the humans.

Raistlin hid his amused snort behind a hand. He _felt _happy, his spirits high after facing the clueless idiots and establishing that his deception didn't run the risk of being found out. Not that he feared them; if discovered, he could kill them all with a simple snap of his fingers. The wrathful gods that would fall on him then were a different matter though. Bastard busybodies.

His good mood —boosted by the hilarious comments of the brothers about what they would have done to the 'fair maid' if allowed by their vows— was completely destroyed some hours later, when he was cooking over the bonfire.

He had forgotten about the dratted Staff of Magius.

Fuming, Raistlin reflected on his dilemma. He couldn't go back to Wayreth and demand Dalamar to give it to him; he expected the dark elf to be either sleeping off his binge or back at Palanthas. In addition, he didn't want to reveal his charade yet. Pretending to be Palin allowed him freedom enough to plot safely. Thus, he had to devise another way to get his beloved staff.

Once certain that his nephews were far from the encampment gathering firewood, the archmage went over his spellbook in search of a suitable spell. None of those he had memorized or in his spellbooks were particularly useful for this endeavour, but after some hard pondering he thought he found one that would do.

Keeping an eye on the saucepan over the fire, Raistlin drew a circle of summoning on the dirt, then one of protection. The place was not the best for this kind of spell; however, the wizard doubted he would have any other chance of casting it in the near future. He checked twice the correctness of the circles and their trustworthiness, then began to chant the incantation, weaving with his hands an intricate web of wizardry.

A figure appeared in the middle of the circles.

"Hello, handsome. What do you want from me?" purred the beautiful, bat-winged woman standing before him. She looked around, a bit bewildered, and commented: "This seems a weird place to do it, but, hey, you are the customer. You won't hear me complaining."

Raistlin rolled his eyes and sighed. Damned Fistandantilus; why didn't he include any non sex-related spell on his ultimate spellbook? His incipient-no-more headache worsened.

"Hear me out, succubus, you are not here to 'do it' as you put it," he snarled in his best bastard voice.

"No? Then why have you summoned me?" the busty demoness seemed nonplussed momentarily, then narrowed her enchanting green eyes in a shrewd expression. "Ah, I see. You tried to summon an incubus, but you failed and magicked me instead. The formulae are very similar; many get the _ith _wrong."

"No, that's not it!" spluttered the archmage, indignant. "I did _not _make a mistake. I summoned you on purpose."

"Really? Then what you are trying to hide under your robes is truly what it seems? I _did _wonder for a moment, master of mine." She shrugged beautifully, flapping her wings in a lazy way. "But if you don't want to have sex, what do you want? Are you of the voyeur sort? I don't have much to remove." She pointed to her skimpy attire, nothing more than two strips of cloth feigning to cover her pudendum.

"No, that's not it either!" Raistlin growled. His headache was threatening to become a full-blown migraine. "No sex! No perversion at all! I want you to go to a place, take something, and return to me in order to give it to me. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Oh," the succubus pouted with a moue of disappointment. Immediately, she plastered a haughty expression over her lovely features. "Am I perhaps to be your errand girl?"

"Exactly. Listen to me, you are to go to the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas." He cut short her attempt of protest with a brusque gesture. "I will transport you there with a teleport spell. At the topmost level, behind a door guarded by a spectre, is the laboratory. Within, lays a magical staff. You will take it and bring it back to me immediately. I will provide you with the code words for the guardian and a little spell to allow you to touch the staff without being struck down." The archmage smirked, feeling a little better at the demoness' discomfort. However, his expression turned severe, and he frowned. "And when you come back, please, make sure of being more presentable."

After enchanting a pebble to act as a protection charm, Raistlin gave it to the succubus. When he remembered she would have to cross the dreaded Shoikan Grove, smacked his front. Damn, he must provide the spell for that as well! He muttered a curse under his breath, at the thought of what it entailed.

With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the magic boundaries and beckoned for her to approach him.

"Yes, what is it? Have you changed you mind before sending me away?"

"Be quiet," Raistlin growled. Quick as a snake, he pecked her on the front while whispering arcane words.

"Ow! So you are kinky after all." Her brief expression of pain gave way to a salacious smile that revealed tiny pointed fangs.

The mage retreated hurriedly, giving her a warning look. "It was only a spell to allow you to traverse the haunted grove that guards the Tower. Now, farewell, succubus, and return to me as swiftly as you are able." And the form of demoness faded, transported by his magic. "Ah, the password is 'rabid bunnies'!"

He sighed relieved. Very soon the Staff would be in his hands again.

"Gah! The dinner!"

Some hours later, Raistlin and the Majere brothers were trying to digest the scorched stew the archmage had managed to scrape off the saucepan. Sturm, whose stomach surely had a steely coating, belched noisily, a sound not knightly at all. His brother ignored it, considering it usual, whereas the older-but-passing-as-younger Majere rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You seem tired after all that high cuisine, Palin. I think you are losing your touch," Tanin commented, still munching the more than hard trailbread. He was to add something, but his eyes looked past the mage, bulging like a batrachian's.

This, and the drooling expression on Sturm's face, were warning enough; therefore, he wasn't startled when a sultry voice breathed on his ear and something hard but warm pressed against his upper back.

"Hello again, my fidgety master," the succubus whispered.

Raistlin turned around to gaze at the demoness. As he had ordered her, she had changed into more modest clothes. However, she was not exactly wearing a black robe. She was bursting it. There were too many dangerous curves and too little fabric to cover them.

"Oh, so you are the envoy Dalamar said he would send?" he asked aloud, looking her up and down sternly. "What do you have for me?"

The pretty fiend blinked in confusion. "Ah-Oh, yes. My master commanded me to bring you this gift." Clever demon! The mage thought as he reached to take the Staff, eagerness clearly on his face. "And I think he commented something about you giving me something in return," she added, moving aside the magical artefact before he could snatch it.

"Pardon?"

"Only a little kissy," she begged, as she pursed her lips.

Looking down at his nephews, who were in a comatose state due to their extreme horniness, and had fallen on the ground foaming at the mouth, Raistlin stood up trying to tower over the succubus. He wasn't successful; she was taller than him and her stiletto heels made her seem even taller.

"None of that. Give me my Staff," he snarled. His hands clenched into fists and an almost perceptible aura of power began to emanate from them.

"Oh, but you are such a killjoy," the field whined. She threw the artefact to him. "You seem to enjoy that piece of wood a bit too much," she nagged nastily.

The archmage ignored her comments, basking as he was in the familiar and welcome feeling of belonging he had missed so much. "You may leave," he whispered, nearly rubbing his head against the wood like a possessive cat. Certainly, he seemed like one with all that purring.

"As you with, master," she said, and disappeared amid a burst of stinking fumes.

It was a long while later when he realized that he hadn't ordered her to return to her home plane.

He had allowed a succubus to roam the lands of Krynn freely.


	3. Par Salian\'s Demise

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Note about 'Spite and Flames': That ficlet was intended as a one-shot. However, I might do some more Mina bashing in the future but not as a second chapter of that one. For the moment, be happy with a little Par-Salian torture. ;)

Thanks for your comments, on S&F and on this one.

Note: This takes place when Raistlin is 'on visit' to Wayreth. Thus, chronologically speaking, it should be Chapter 2-½. Bear with me. ;)

Chapter 3: Par-Salian's Demise

The night hung over the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, and most of its inhabitants were sleeping like logs. However, not every one of them was. One of the latter was roaming its hallowed corridors hastily.

Raistlin Majere was the most powerful wizard born to Krynn, ever. His mastery of sorcery was renowned, as was his deep erudition in many arcane and mundane areas. All of these, nevertheless, were completely useless in his current endeavour: to avoid wetting himself.

Some illustrious mind had forgotten to leave a chamber pot in his rooms, or anything to serve as it. That wouldn't be so serious were it not for the lack of any lavatories, or at least indicated ones. In addition, at these nightly hours there weren't apprentices to point out the hidden facilities. Why couldn't they use those oh-so-solicitous undeads he had back at home as servants? They never complained about overwork or night shifts. But no, those old hypocrites weren't in favour of undead manpower, and made their apprentices serve as such. On the other hand, there was a cesspool in the dungeons, near Fistandantilus' hideout, but it was known to be haunted by… things. Smelly, horrid things born of centuries of magic and shit. And using a window wouldn't be wise either; no one knows if the next Raistlin is taking his or her Test out there. Moreover, the Forest had a nasty reputation.

And so, there he was, running surreptitiously through those musty corridors in search of a suitable place to relieve himself from his current, urgent need. Not able to hold it any longer, he opened the first door he came across, and entered. The room the wizard had broken into was a luxurious study, packed with bursting shelves of white-bound tomes, tastefully furnished and full of magical trinkets. Raistlin, though, never saw any of this. He took the first empty flask he was able to grab and used it, uttering a long, breathy sigh of relief.

The archmage was about to decide what to do with the now full flask when a mad flurry of white clothes burst into the study, and a cracked voice asked sternly: "Who are you? And what are you doing with my elixir of soothing peace?"

Before he could react, a decrepit old man wearing a worn, white dressing gown and fur-lined slippers took the flask away from his hands, tut-tuting in annoyance. Boggled surprise took his mind momentarily, or Raistlin would have blasted the old dodderer on the spot. But, however, the latter was left blissfully unaware of this, and was able to reach his cluttered vallenwood desk and take a seat.

He was Par-Salian, the former Head of the White Robes and the Conclave. And his smile was bright and unnaturally toothy.

"Oh, you are the young Majere that recently passed his Test at Palanthas, aren't you?" the crock mused, placing the supposed elixir of soothing peace on his desk. His tone and attitude were amicable and gentle, unlike the ones he had used with Raistlin in the past, always stern and more than a little condescending and supercilious.

Reining in his ire, the younger mage took a seat when Par-Salian urged him to do it. Perhaps it might prove more entertaining killing the old man slowly and tortuously after getting his dirty secrets out of him. It was clear the bastard had not recognized him, he was as blind as the rest. Thus, he put 'Palin's smile' on his face and nodded in agreement. "Yes, I am."

"I see you have more sense than your late and evil uncle. You chose the White Robes," Par-Salian commented, one of his bushy eyebrows arching. "You look remarkably like Raistlin. However, he always reminded me of a famished and crafty fox, whereas you seem… well, less foxy and undernourished than him. Don't take it the wrong way, my lad," he said hurriedly, when he saw Raistlin's anger, mistaking his reasons for it.

The dark archmage forced his frown away and a smile to his thin lips. Keep your cool, you always can fry him later, he said to himself, again and again. "The gods decided that white was my colour," he commented blandly. It wasn't even a lie. "And, concerning Uncle Raistlin; I don't think I'm the most suitable person to give my opinion about him."

"Such a good boy, so respectful of the rules and your elders, and properly thankful to our Patrons. So different from Raistlin; who was so full of rebelliousness, always so ungrateful." It was Par-Salian's turn to frown. "And rotten to the core, don't forget about that."

How _dare _he? The cheek!

"Possibly you had a hand in that rot you speak of," the younger man nearly spat, trying to keep his voice free of the venom that filled his mouth. "My father told me…"

Par-Salian held up his hand in a pacifying gesture.

"Undoubtedly, you have been told many lies, my lad. No, no, I'm not saying your father lied to you knowingly; his head was filled with his twin's poisonous whispers. He was a little viper, your uncle Raistlin was. And a very dangerous one." The old geezer gestured for him to approach, and he did, the words of a very necromantic spell on the tip of his soured tongue.

"I see that you have a righteous soul, as pure as your uncle's was dark. I know I can trust you, young man, and it's time for someone, apart from me and the Gods, to know the truth at last. To bequeath my legacy. Between you and me, Solinari knows I tried, but trying to make Raistlin see the light was truly a waste of time and effort."

"You see, Paladine spoke to me. 'Thou are to seek a Sword to vanquish Darkness,' he commanded. And I, like the devoted servant I am, did. Of course, I was not going to look for it among our good youths; vanquishing darkness is a very dirty and ungrateful job, you know, not suitable for those who truly deserve the gifts of the Gods. That was a job to be carried out by an expendable candidate to the Red or the Black Robes. Oh, but you seem shocked. Don't be, my young friend. Only the White Order matters, you know it as well as I do. Look into your heart and ask yourself if neutrality and evil should be allowed to coexist with the greater good, tarnishing it."

Raistlin was amazed into silence by the enormity of Par-Salian's hypocrisy. For decades, as the Head of the Conclave, the old man had played the role of the fair leader, follower of the Balance Doctrine, fooling everybody into believing that he advanced the interests of the _three_ Orders. Publicly he paid lip service to the Three Cousins, possibly licking only Solinari's boots in private. Manipulative git! This might be the true explanation why so few aspiring White Robes were killed in the Test during his leadership…

Par-Salian, unaware of the cogs wheeling in Raistlin's devious mind, carried on with his monologue.

"And your uncle was the ideal candidate; he had the potential, the guts, and the lack of scruples to be a bloody good sword. He was flawed, however. Raistlin needed to be stronger, and tougher, and to understand the true nature of Good, to become the suitable tool required by the God to chase away evil. Therefore, I endeavoured to help him to overcome his imperfections."

I wonder when you did that, Raistlin thought, too fascinated by the old wizard's 'righteous' two-facedness to blast him to his dear Solinari.

"Yes, I tried to aid your uncle to become a better person, hence a little more worthy of the immense honour granted to him. Nevertheless, I knew he was already born bad; so set into his dark path he was, I was certain he wouldn't listen to reason if treated with gentleness, patience, and care. Raistlin was a special person that needed a special method to be dealt with: Inverted Logic."

Not only is the bastard manipulative, but mad as a hatter too, the younger archmage mused. He wondered if squashing the old man's head with the platinum statuette of Paladine on the side table would be as satisfying as he imagined.

"According to this infallible method," ─Raistlin couldn't help but snort─, "you must apply a contrary negative force to obtain a positive reaction. Take for example his strength; we needed him to be tougher, therefore I made them break his health irreversibly and erased the little vigour he had ever had. That made him stronger indeed. Not physically, mind you, but in spirit and resolve, which were what mattered."

Raistlin looked at the old White Robe agape. This loon had him tortured ─tortured!─ gratuitously during his Test to put into practice his crazed psychological theories. All had been orchestrated for him to become a cripple! He felt light-headed and nauseous. Hardly able to rein in the fury that threatened to smash his mask of amazed blandness, he plucked up courage and studied Par-Salian through hooded eyes as the old mage continued his innermost confession.

"Then, I strived to teach him compassion. How? Being incredibly cruel to him, of course. I will have you know, young man, that there's not an ounce of cruelty in my body; carrying out my mission was abhorring for me, but necessary. It was for the sake of the Greater Good. Anyway, I forced myself to cast on him the Curse of Reylanna. Have you heard about it? Yes, it was those famous hourglass pupils Raistlin sported. They made him see the effect of the passing of time. Entropy at its barest. Therefore, he saw everything and everybody rotting away."

"And how in the abyss was that going to teach him compassion?" Raistlin managed to ask through lips devoid of all colour. This was a matter that had occupied his mind for years, and he never had reached a coherent conclusion.

"Ah, the question was to be ruthless with him. Don't you see? Cruelty engenders compassion."

"So the curse had no specific purpose?" Raistlin chocked out.

"Well, no. It was the cruellest thing that crossed my mind at the time." The nutcase regarded him beatifically, never imagining that in front of him there was a volcano ready to erupt. "And to finish it all off, I gave him the Staff of Magius. A plaything to lay into dragons with, the bigger and the nastier the better." A wicked smile crossed his lips and he giggled softly. "No one knows it, but that artefact has a hidden power: It drives its wielder to search the most evil and powerful dragons to kill them."

Now I understand why I did such stupidity as trying to overthrow Takhisis and seize her divinity, Raistlin marvelled. Throughout his period of sleep in the immortal plane he had wondered what induced him to do that; he had always thought that the godly trade had to be a complete pain in the arse, always putting up with whining faithfuls and their demands of miracles. And, worst of all, the rest of gods. In addition, one had to be an idiot to limit oneself to a divine portfolio. Take for instance Takhisis, the Queen of Dorkness.

"However, he was not supposed to survive the war," huffed Par-Salian. His creased expression conveyed clearly the disgust he felt at Raistlin's insolence. "That bastard somehow resisted the lure of the Staff; managed to trick his destiny and insult the trust placed on him. He turned his nose up at his rightful place in history as heroic martyr of Good! And the ungrateful wretch repaid my magnanimousness by turning renegade, squatting in the Tower of Palanthas, taking it for himself, and kicking up that jam of killing a goddess! That miserable git was so… so difficult. At least he had the decency of committing suicide via claw rending. I hope now he is learning of his mistakes amidst unmentionable suffering, as he deserves."

The fake White Robe didn't know whether to burst of indignation or laugh at the uncanny insanity of the fusty wizard. He felt a little better, though, his sight cleared of that blood-red film that had covered it momentarily. Even if Par-Salian was stark raving mad, that wouldn't save the old man from his vengeance. And it was at hand…

"A question, Great One," he said, cutting off the string of complaints with his best sickly-sweet voice. "All this talk about Uncle Raistlin is very interesting, and I feel truly, deeply honoured at being the repository of your legacy." Hah! "However, I've always wanted to speak with a true master wizard about my studies."

Par-Salian's face brightened and he abandoned his long-winded peevish speech. "Of course, my good boy, ask away, ask away."

Raistlin's smile was so gentle his face hurt, and would continue doing so for at least a week after.

"You see, master, I have a spell… Allow me to demonstrate it!" And he launched in to the intricate casting while his clueless victim regarded him with a contented grin on his lips. He was the very picture of dear grandfatherlyness, the bastard; as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

After a while ─well, the darned spell was a difficult one─, that shiny smile slackened a little. Maybe he was starting to wonder how a newly robed mage was able to weave such a long and complex incantation, especially one that he'd never heard before.

With a soft clenching of his right hand, Raistlin uttered the last arcane words, which hung briefly in the air only to dissipate as if never voiced. Then, he lay back on his seat and smiled. Contrary to his former honeyed grin, this one was very, very foxy. The grin of a trickster.

It was extremely satisfying to observe how it had the effect of wiping Par-Salian's smile from his wrinkled face.

"Er… What…?" The old archmage faltered, eyeing him, half-confused and half-suspicious. Then, he seemed to get his wits back. The grandfatherly smile reappeared. "You have cast it wrongly, lad. I know you are anxious to learn, but you shouldn't tax your abilities in this way…"

Raistlin's smirk became even more noticeable. "I have not, _Great One_." No one else would've been able to put so much mockery in two words. "You don't even know what it is, do you? Oh, no, no, don't try to excuse yourself - and quit simpering; it's perfectly logical you don't, since I invented it."

"But you…"

"But I. I am the genius who created this nice little spell. I call it 'memento mori'," he laughed softly, the embodiment of cool evilness. "You will know why very soon."

Par-Salian, his eyes wide and full of dread, opened his mouth to say something, but only a strangled gasp escaped him. Suddenly, he paled, whiter than his own pristine dressing gown. As Raistlin watched amused, the old man began to make a great fuss, gesticulating wildly and taking great gulps of air.

Possibly the golden shade that now tinted his skin had something to do with it, the younger man reflected absently, studying his hands briefly. He shrugged.

Meanwhile, the musty archmage had thrown himself to the floor, and was now kicking out in a most undignified manner. He tried to reach the flask on the table ─one of the few things he hadn't managed to knock over─ as Raistlin perched on it, highly amused. A violent spasm shook his frame, however, and his blue-veined hand fell to the floor, keeping him company in his death rattle.

It was over too soon.

"Pooh! How lame!" the living wizard complained. Nevertheless, he didn't lose his satisfied smile. He even uttered a loud laugh. Still smirking, he made himself comfortable on Par-Salian's former seat, he rested his booted feet on the disordered table and intertwined his fingers to rest his head on them as he lay back. "Well, we will see whether the next is more interesting."

* * *

A loud racket brought Par-Salian back from the icy depths of darkness. Numb, and still shaken by the terrible memories of what had happened in his study, he managed to open a rheum-encrusted eye, unsettled by the stir he sensed going on around him.

He was in his bed, clothed with his now-soppy nightshirt. That would have been a calming sight indeed, were it not for the three figures that loomed over him. These were, judging by their starched blue robes and professional demeanor, Mishakites. Servants of the Healing Hand had come to his aid! They were two men and a woman, too young for his liking ─the human male still sported pimples that bespoke of an adolescence left behind not too recently. It was when he paid attention to their heated discussion that he discovered that who called the tune ─the strapping and muscle-bound male elf with cropped hair─ was not a male, but a female. No one would have told by her appearance ─she was manlier than most of the males of her race.

"We must save this old ruin," the beardless male human was saying, his tone one of affected exasperation.

"I know that," replied the fair… elf. "This is our last chance at proving we are skilled enough to enter the Sisterhood, and I refuse to allow it to end in a bloomer again."

Par-Salian's pale eyes widened at those words. Looking for the first time at the holy symbols hanging around their necks, he noticed they were not the usual silvery ones that indicated a Revered Child of Mishakal. They were made from some tarnished, cheap metal, and below the eternity symbol of the goddess, there were engraved the following words: Para-cleric in training period.

"His breathing has quickened dangerously," warned the female who up to that moment had remained silent. "And he's too pale. I think he shows signs of the beginning of a stroke!"

"We won't allow this dirty human to make us fail our test!" the elf shouted with stern resolution.

"No!" her two cohorts chorused heartily.

The terrified archmage tried to tell them that he was fine; their zealous disposition was the only cause of his agitation. However, he was unable; he only could look at them, distressed and paralysed, some evil power robbing him his voice and ability to move.

"Now he is asphyxiating!" cried the human female, pointing to his face, which had reddened due to his futile efforts to shoo them.

"I think he's hyperventilating," contradicted the male. "Look at his dilated pupils. We are going to lose him, like the others."

"Not if I have any say in this!" growled the elf, and immediately after straddled his prone form. "Larissa, you are in charge of the resuscitation, I'll take care of the cardiac massage; and Roderick… you count up."

"All right, Thandintalianara," he agreed, but grudgingly.

Larissa was at first sloppy, then deadly in her endeavour. Instead of helping him, she was smothering him! On Thandintalianara's part, her zeal was a bit too much, particularly taking into account that his heart still beat in his chest as she hammered at it. Roderick was no better, losing count every five minutes.

The sound of bone breaking stilled their valiant efforts to save who didn't need to be saved.

"Uh-oh, this seems really bad," muttered the elf. She stood beside the bed to study the now gurgling victim.

Larissa imitated her. "His old heart can't take any more," she breathed, downhearted.

"One moment, I've got the solution!" Roderick cried.

Par-Salian had time enough only to be blinded by the brightness that seared his eyes.

"I don't think you should have used that scroll of _call lightning_, Roderick," said Thandintalianara once they put out the fires. She regarded the scorched corpse twisted among the ruins of the burned bed sadly.

"But in the handbook was a section about how electricity could help the heart to resume its beating. I even remember it was titled 'Electroconvulsive therapy'."

"But you should've read a little more than the title," reproached Larissa. "And, for your information, electroconvulsive therapy is used to help people not right in the head! Oh, well, there goes our chance."

The elf shrugged. "Well, we could always try to join the Dirty Brethren of Morgion, they are not as picky as the Mishakites. Surely they'll appreciate your skills."

Her two companions nodded, and the three of them left, throwing their temporary holy symbols to the charred remains of the former Head of the Conclave of High Sorcery.

* * *

Not bothering to choke back his shriek of horror, Par-Salian returned to the land of the 'not-electrified-to-death', sitting in his bed.

He looked around expecting the sadistic Mishakites to pounce. None of them were in sight though; it seemed that he was alone in his undamaged bedroom. His heart beating in his chest ─a reminder of the painful, cruel therapy─, the wizard stood and put his dressing gown and his slippers on. Full of trepidation, he went to the door which led to his study, paused in front of it with his hand on the doorknob. After five full minutes, the old man sighed resignedly and opened it.

No Raistlin laughing himself silly either. Perhaps it all had been a weird nightmare?

Suddenly, the light went out and the door closed over his head… Wait a minute, hadn't it been _behind _him?

"Ah-ha! You have fallen into my… Oh, it's you," said a dry, downhearted, cracked voice. Then, there was light, and Par-Salian was able to make out a being even more ruinous than himself. The red lights that shone in the depths of his dark and empty eyesockets glowered at the old man. "Welcome to my more than humble abode, Parsley. How nice of you to visit an old forgotten friend."

Par-Salian was wondering how in the abyss he had managed to end up in the dingy chamber of Fistandantilus. For decades, he had taken great care to avoid the lower levels ─and this chamber particularly─ of the Tower, just in case any of their inhabitants called him to account. Ah, but the sacrifices of his honour and pride he had been forced to make in the past for the sake of Krynn!

"You are disgusting; your den is a pigsty. It stinks," the living wizard said, wrinkling his nose.

"Really? Well, since I have no nose," he pointed the hole that opened above his mouth with a semi-skeletal finger, "I cannot know. However, I commend your politeness," the lich added, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Haven't we a matter pending, my friend?"

"Uh. No? How dare you insinuate that I have anything to do with such an evil creature as you?" Par-Salian huffed, offended.

The undead mage regarded him, possibly a little amazed at his companion's selective memory. It was difficult to judge by his inexpressive features though.

"Well, I'll refresh your memory a bit, Parsley. Do you remember that meeting we had in, let's see…" He took a dirty agenda from under the table and consulted it. "On H'hramont the second, 346? Oh, you do now, eh? Yes, it was when you brought me here in return for a little favour I was to do for you. 'Break that puny Majere and feed from most of his lifeforce, but not enough to kill him', you said. 'In exchange, you'll prey on those who fall into your trap.' And I did, but the runt's lifeforce was soured and gave me a stomach ache for at least seven years. That's why I couldn't stop him from taking over my dear Tower," he wailed.

"In addition, you never sent any other apprentice this way! I'm starved and falling to pieces! Don't act innocent now, I've it all noted down here," Fistandantilus warned, shaking the agenda threateningly. "And now here I am, an inmate of this gloomy prison, without a hope of going to my date, and cursed!"

"I'm certainly cursed!" replied Par-Salian savagely.

"Are you?" the lich asked, pacified and intrigued by the despair in the living wizard's voice.

"Yes, I am. That bastard Raistlin cast a spell on me and I've already suffered two horrible deaths. 'Memento mori' he called it."

"'Remember you are going to die'? That's what it means. It sounds like lots of fun," his undead companion commented approvingly. Then, seeing Par-Salian's angry countenance amended: "Perhaps not so for the target."

"You must help me to undo it!"

"My, do you think me so obtuse? I'm not doing it in exchange for nothing, like the last time, you swindler."

"But that way you will get your revenge on Raistlin…" pleaded the White Robe.

"Nope. Wrong answer. What do I win if I help you?"

The old wizard seemed dismayed and torn; after some inner deliberation though, he nodded, defeated but determined.

"You say you need a new body. Young Majere is of no use anymore; what's more, he poses a serious danger to Krynn. I'll help you to take and possess his."

"Why in the abyss do we keep calling him 'young' when he's at least in his sixties?" wondered the lich aloud. Both mages shrugged; Raistlin was younger than any of them after all. "Alright, but please sign the contract I'm going to draw up this very moment. I don't trust your word."

Par-Salian sighed and acquiesced. He neared the cluttered table while Fistandantilus wrote the contract on a crumpled and dirty parchment. As he was to sign it, however, he jumped back in fright.

"What are those?" the wizard said pointing a trembling finger at a pair of shining red eyes surrounded by darkness under the table.

"Oh, don't make any sudden moves. They are my curse," warned the rotting mage.

"I don't like the way they are looking at me," whined Par-Salian.

"Just sign the damned contract! And… No! Don't blast them…!"

A weary sigh threatened to burst the small chamber that served as Fistandantilus' prison.

"So, the bunnies are deadly to mortals," murmured the latter, glancing the terribly mutilated corpse that once had been Par-Salian. "Serves him right, the lying bastard."

He was sitting at the table and clicking like mad his 'lapdog', the four bunnies attached to his ruinous frame shaking as he moved. His grimace was even more hideous than usual. "And now I'm forced to write this rubbish about Astinus and Toede. Ugh! It's disgusting even for me."

"Raistlin, you are to blame for my misfortune! I'll have my vengeance on you!"

With a supreme effort of will, Fistandantilus moved away from the table and, ignoring the frantic bunnies driving him to write pure drivel, he raised his bony arms to the ceiling in a invocation.

"O Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, heed my plea and come to my aid!"

After repeating this one thousand times, the goddess got bored with his incessant and annoying pleading, and made an image of herself appear in the chamber.

"You are giving me a headache, Fistandantilus. What do you want now? I'm a busy deity, you know."

"I want to help you in an endeavour."

Takhisis stared at him nonplussed for a brief second. "So you want to help _me _to do something? And that would be…? I don't remember anything in my agenda including you."

"I have a foolproof plan to revenge ourselves on that runt Raistlin Majere."

The goddess' grin was so frightening even the brainless bunnies cowered.

"I'm all ears, my dear lich."

* * *

An acute pain in the head awoke Par-Salian.

Opening his eyes and fearing what he would find, he discovered he was again in his room. The floor of his room to be exact. Apparently, he had fallen head first from the bed, and was now lying amid a heap of white sheets.

They reminded him of shrouds.

Shivering, the old man put on his dressing gown and slippers. Again. How many times had he done so lately? However, once thus clothed, he sat again on the bed, fearful of his next actions. What should he do? Wait for the upcoming terrible death? He choked back a sob. What had he done to deserve such punishment? He had been a faithful and righteous champion of Good, doing as requested, without questions or complaints… He had helped the world to be saved from darkness, and then to rid it of the flawed tools that might have infected it with their corrupted blades. He was a good man! He had made great sacrifices for the sake of magic, the gods, and Krynn!

Par-Salian burst into tears.

After a while, tears exhausted. The wizard resigned himself and went to face the fate that awaited him in his study.

Nevertheless, he found no Mishakites, no Raistlin, and no Fistandantilus. His study was as he had left it in the evening, a mess. The only difference was a scruffy hat on his table, near the elixir of soothing peace. Once upon a time it had been white, he supposed, and it was crumpled and pointless. In spite of its unassuming appearance, a nearly imperceptible aura of magic and divinity surrounded the piece of clothing.

Par-Salian recognised it, awed.

It was Fizban's hat.

Crying and laughing at the same time, the archmage took it from his table with utmost reverence. His old legs began the steps of a long forgotten happy dance. "At last, my faithfulness is rewarded as deserved! The avatar of the Great Paladine himself comes to my rescue! Surely he is now smiting that lowly worm, making him feel the wrath of Good for daring to torture one of its stout followers!" he cackled madly.

He continued dancing and jumping and generally acting like a silly coot until his energy ran out and he was forced to take a seat. Even though only five minutes had elapsed since he entered the study, Par-Salian began to wonder why his avenging was taking the god so long. In his wrinkled mind, he imagined the deity in his Platinum Dragon form ─never mind that the only place big enough to accommodate such huge beast was the Hall of Mages and it was very probable that Raistlin hadn't even approached it─ squashing the snivelling, howling bug with his mighty paw. He snickered to himself.

After a while, however, even his limited imagination ─he had invested nearly all of it on his 'good' deeds in the past─ ran out. He regarded the hat still in his hands with a bored air. A god of Paladine's calibre didn't deserve such dirty clothing. It even seemed to regard him with a deep frown. Of course it was not possible, it had no eyes or brows or front to manage. For gods' sake, it was a _hat_.

Determined to be as helpful as he could be to his saviour, Par-Salian tried to dust it, and nearly choked to death.

When the cloud of dust settled, the old crook thought he could make out… a scowl formed by the hat's creases? Were it a living being, Par-Salian would've been very, very afraid, but since it was a mere piece of clothing… Or perhaps not, the dullard was not exactly known for his common sense.

"I wonder what it feels like to wear the property of a god," Pas-Salian mused. With a quick glance around to confirm that Fizban was not there, he put the hat on his head with utmost solemnity.

At least he was solemn, until he heard a growl and it all became dark.

The indignant Hat spat Par-Salian's dressing gown from within its mysterious depths. As if being abandoned anywhere again and again by your owner was not enough! Not only the imbecile had not respected its lovely layer of crusty dust ─after so many millennia together, it felt like a part of itself─, but had dared to _put _it on! How revolting! It had tried to warn the pesky human, but no, he had ignored the _evident _signs. Come on, it reeked of mighty magic! You don't put on an item seeping power; you keep it as far away from you as you can! At least sensible mages usually do.

The Hat growled again. That geezer was hard to digest; all bones and skin.

It wondered when its idiotic owner would come to fetch it.

* * *

Raistlin was on the floor, in stitches. Fat tears of mirth ran down his cheeks as he saw how Par-Salian found his gruesome end ─again─ at the 'hands' of a grumpy sentient hat.

"How foolish can the old fogey be?" the mage laughed between gasps. His sides hurt from so much effort. "How dare the idiot imagine that a god is going to rescue him, when Paladine has ignored others much more deserving than him? He is so convinced of his own virtue!"

Wiping the tears away with a hand, Raistlin stood up and took a list he had written on a parchment. He crossed out one sentence. "Death by stroke, check; death by inept medical care, check; death by zombie bunnies, check; death by pissed off Hat, check. Let's see, what's the next one…?"

"NO MORE!"

The fake White Robe turned around to confront the madman that had dared to bellow at him in such manner.

The newcomer was a tall, strapping black-skinned man in black robes. His figure was a bit strange, shoulders narrower than hips and legs too log for such a short trunk. He had two ridiculous pompoms of curly dark hair decorating the sides of his almost bald head and his eyes were completely black. Raistlin had never seen or heard about this bloke, but stilled his hand ─in the process of casting a nice abyssal fireball─ when he began to speak hurriedly.

"Please, no more, Raistlin. I agree with you that the old bastard deserves to die again and again, but, please, please, I can't take any more!" he moaned, distressed.

"And who are you, who knows my name?" hissed the archmage threateningly, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, how ill-mannered on my part. However, try to understand, Par-Salian's demises are giving me a huge headache," the black man pleaded. "I'm…" He struck a theatrical pose. "The Master of the Tower."

Raistlin regarded him with an utterly non-convinced expression. "Yeah, of course. Nevertheless, the last time I saw Justarius, he was not black and misshapen; lame, yes; deformed, no," he replied sarcastically, his upper lip twisted in his infamous grimace.

"Are you sure?" smirked the self-called Master of the Tower. And, suddenly, there was no black man in black, but Justarius in his usual red.

The archmage let out a gasp before he could help himself. "Are you Justarius?"

The Red Robe smiled and then became Dalamar. "Of course not," he said in his customary smug tone. But after a mere blinking, it was Ladonna who regarded him, amused. "I'm anyone I want to be." And he became Raistlin himself.

"That's cool! But you got the colour wrong," he said pointing the red robe the fake Raistlin wore.

The Master reverted to his initial shape and shrugged. "It has its limits. I can only take the form of any mage who passed his or her Test here."

"I don't understand why that absurd restriction, but I would like you to teach me that spell." Raistlin's tone was not too pleading; more like demanding.

"I cannot, since it is not a spell." The black man frowned. "I don't think you understand. When I said I was the Master of the Tower I did mean it… well, in a sense."

"In which one?" asked the archmage, a bit despondent at the loss of such wonderful power.

The Master seemed unsure about explaining himself. "Er… Let's say I'm… the one who masters the power here…"

"Could you be a lot less vague, please?"

"You know, the powers that be an all that…"

"I don't follow you."

"I'm the damned tower, you slow-wit! I'm a fucking magical, sentient building! Happy now?" he shouted. "And the angst released by that dullard's painful deaths is driving me mad. Those bad vibes seep into my stones and stay there screwing with the Tests. And messed Tests means less mages for me to transform into. And my headache could kill a paragon dragon!"

"You are the Tower of Wayreth?"

"Yes!"

"Could you please show me to the nearest lavatory?"

* * *

In a place we already made clear was not truly the Abyss.

At the end of an endless queue, Par-Salian waited patiently for his turn to enter the Wonderful Realm of the Great Beyond for the Goodies. It was full of grave Knights of Solamnia, pious clerics followers of the Gods of Good, courageous freedom fighters, honest innkeepers, hard-working farmers, and ─the horror! ─ too many kenders.

After a reasonable no-time (that place lacks the dimension of time), a little brown-robed man coming from the mists of the afterworld plane, approached the old archmage. The latter considered the newcomer: He was ─as already stated─ a short man clothed in a simple brown sackcloth robe, cowl partially hiding his friendly, scaly features and yellowed eyes. His few wisps of hair were unworthy of mention, as were the absence of ears or the forked tongue that slithered between his nearly non-existent lips.

"Hello there, old pal!" he little man hissed amicably, even though the sentence lacked the necessary sounds to do so. He flashed a bright grin that exposed a row of tiny sharp teeth. "Are you Par-Sssalian, former Head of the White Robesss and the Conclave of High Sssorcery?"

"The very same," replied Par-Salian bursting with pride. "What do you want of me, good man? Um… Master Dracos."

The scaly man's smile widened even more than previously. He fingered the shiny nametag pinned to his robe.

"That'sss right. I'm Galan Dracossss, your sssoul worker for your ssstay in the Otherworld until you get oblivion or reincarnation," he said brightly. He glanced down briefly to a small board he had in his hand, then looked up to Par-Salian. "However, according to your file you got the queue mixed up."

The old mage frowned.

"Is this not the one for Paladine's domain?"

"Yesss, of courssse it isss. Therefore, the wrong one."

"Am I to go to Solinari's perhaps? I know it's not as magnificent as Paladine's abode, but I understand the god's need of keeping me close."

Galan couldn't help but chuckle softly.

"What a leg puller. No, no, asss it sssaysss in your dossssier, you are a manipulator, a cheater, a liar, a false, and a child abussser. Thusss, your rotten sssoul belongsss to Hiddukel the Trickssster. Sssee? It'sss here in the 'offensssesss' sssection.

"But-but… that cannot be true! I have never approached children, I am allergic to them!"

Galan's smile froze at the unreasonable attitude of his client. Those lines passing as eyebrows in his face frowned.

"The data herein contained isss completely trussstworthy. Godly-certified," he said coldly.

"But…"

Quick as a striking snake, the scaly little man grabbed Par-Salian by the front of his robe and pulled him outside the queue.

Par-Salian whined in fright.

"Hear me, old codger, reaching thisss nice posssition hasss taken me thousssandsss of yearsss of very hard work. I refussse to let an archmageling mar my perfect record now." His yellowed eyes shone dangerously under the no-light. Then, after a brief moment of tense fury, he seemed to calm himself and let go of the frightened wizard. His amiable smile returned in force, and he even helped Par-Salian to adjust his rumpled robes. "Don't worry, it'sss not asss bad asss it ssseemsss. Take good Beldyn for inssstance; in lesss than four hundred yearsss he hasss managed to enter the repair brigade, and now he'sss in Takhisssisss' realm, replacing the sssignpossstsss sssome hooligan or another dessstroyed sssome time ago."

Softening a bit before the pathetic scene of an former powerful archmage crying his eyes out in anguish, Galan patted him on the shoulder and tried to cheer him up a bit.

"C'mon, old man, that'sss a very undignified attitude. Brighten up and come with me to Hiddukel'sss queue."

"Ah, it'sss alwaysss the sssame with the high and mighty," he sighed, half pulling half dragging the mewling Par-Salian.

* * *

In Krynn, since he had never been innocent, Raistlin slept the sleep of the unabashed with a pleased smirk on his face.

Note 2: Galan Dracos, for the few of you who don't know who he is, was a very powerful renegade, contemporary of Huma.

Note 3: Beldyn (or Beldinas) was the last Kingpriest of Istar.


	4. Nefarious Acts Result in Dire Consequenc

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Chapter 4: Nefarious Acts Result in Dire Consequences─Or Not

During his long sleep in whichever plane he had been in, Raistlin had missed something of Krynn very much ─the warbles of birds.

It was one of his most well kept secrets, that liking of his. You can't maintain a reputation as a ruthless evil over-wizard if anyone knows you favour those sweet trills. Still, he adored them so much that when living in the Tower of Palanthas he had several huge cages where his little goldfinch and nightingale pets lived as kings, as pampered as only sons. He had concealed them under powerful illusions, just in case Dalamar decided to get snoopy and poke about his _shalafi_'s chambers. Now and again, he thought about his little birdies, wondering whether his loyal, undead servants had cared for them as the dears deserved.

That was the reason he braved the still, cold nights of spring with the shutters of his room open: to awaken to the gentle sounds of the birds perched on the branches of the vallenwood. Like this morning.

Sneezing, Raistlin burrowed into his blankets, unwilling to dispel the magic of the moment. Since returning from Wayreth, he had felt like loafing around, in appearance content with the simple, quiet life he led as Palin. Even if the little sisters from the Abyss and that psychotic brother of his collaborated a bit more! However, a nice 'barrier against pests' worked wonders with the former ─apparently it was as effective against mischievous nieces as it was against kender─ while he had become quite adept at avoiding the latter.

The only remarkable incident since then had taken place at the end of the journey back to Solace, while they were still a few miles away from the thriving town. A gang of bandits had thought that the three young men riding unconcernedly were easy prey, and ambushed them on the road. Had their lucky star been shining that day, the outlaws would have managed to escape after a mere sound thrashing at the hands of their victims. It was not to be though. After his blunder with the succubus and the long ride back, Raistlin had been so impatient to reach home and take a long, hot bath and an extended nap that the unexpected assault had peeved him mightily. Fed up, he had simply used the first spell able enough to get rid of them that had come to his mind. Possibly, he had gone a bit too far with that particular spell, after all it was one of the most powerful and deadly in existence. However, his nephews had fallen for his little deceit. Clearly, Tanin and Sturm had as much idea about magic as Par-Salian had about godly apparel. His secret was still safe.

Raistlin settled back blissfully amid the soft blankets, lazily pondering what he was _not _going to do today. He should get up some hours later in order to not pass Caramon before he went to pester his clientele. Maybe he could keep the brothers' company, studying one of his spellbooks near Crystalmir Lake while Tanin and Sturm beat each other with the excuse of improving their prowess. That sounded quite good indeed.

"Hey, Palin," piped a fluty voice from the outside of his window. Pity the magic ward wasn't able to block out sounds as well. Opening a sleepy eye, the mage saw it was Dezra the Slicker.

"What do you want now?" he groaned. Well, there went his lovely morning. Once one of the imps clamped her metaphorical jaws on her prey, she never let it go. "Don't you see I'm sleeping?"

"You are not," replied the girl, then tsk-tsked: "And you know Mom doesn't like you to sleep with that fancy stick. She says Un… you know who… did the same, and she doesn't want to be reminded of him."

"What she doesn't see can't hurt her," the mage growled. Forecasting her following words, he sighed and reached for the money pouch he kept hidden under the mattress.

"But what she hears might," Dezra nearly crowed. Her selfish, crooked grin made him believe for a moment she was the very reincarnation of Kitiara. "Poor mommy, her little son does dirty things with a piece of wood that belonged to…"

"How much?" Raistlin cut into her tirade. Abyss, the little monster knew how to ruin a nice morning!

She seemed to ponder the question for a long while.

"How about two steels?"

"Two…!" he spluttered, indignant. Nonetheless, he threw the coins at her through the open window in the hope that one of them would hurt her badly. No such luck though; she was nimble as a kender, and highly skilled at dodging her brother's projectiles. "That's armed robbery, anklebiter."

Dezra, who had caught the steel pieces dexterously, regarded her 'brother' from under drooping eyelids. Her eyes were so cold and calculating that Raistlin wondered why he had not been yet murdered in his sleep for her to get all his money. Possibly because of the wards. Yes, too much like Kitiara, this one. A mercenary at heart. Laura, on the other hand, was not as profit-oriented. She simply relished torturing her sibling for the sake of amusement. Hers, of course.

"Well, dear Palin, doing deals with you is always a pleasure." The girl shrugged. "By the way, Mom said that fat old master of yours wanted you to visit him at Poopbottom." After taking a last, shrewd glance at him, the girl took her leave.

His humour dangerously soured, Raistlin got up from bed and, scowl in place, leant on the windowsill looking at the greenness of the family vallenwood without seeing it. He hadn't even remembered his former master, Theobald. His apprenticeship at the hands of that lout in the den of stupidity he dared to call a school was a chapter of his past he had closed and pushed into the deepest recesses of his mind. The man had been ─and Raistlin supposed he still was─ a complete idiot, his classmates were more interested in putting their fingers up their noses than in learning magic, and since that period he hadn't been able to smell cabbage without feeling the urge to incinerate something. However, if he wanted to continue with his charade, he couldn't refuse the geezer's request. Nevertheless, he was not an apprentice anymore, either as Raistlin or as Palin, so perhaps he could enjoy himself by making fun of the man.

His spirits a little higher, the mage had a wash and clothed himself. Before leaving his room, he put one of his new acquisitions into his bag and went to the common room of the inn.

The coast was clear; the common room of the inn was empty at this early hour. In addition, Caramon's axe was missing from its customary place near the counter. That meant the dunce was deforesting the woods; with a bit of luck one day he would approach the Dark Forest to be eviscerated by its denizens, or maybe he would come across some radical ecologist elf and his swift bow. If only!

He was about to open the main door to leave when a sharp voice stopped him.

"Where do you think you are going, young man?"

"Oh. Good morning Mom." He went to the kitchen's entrance, where Tika was eyeing him with her keen green eyes, and pecked her obligingly on the cheek. In return, he received a thorough hugging and several kisses. Raistlin abhorred it. "I was going to Master Theobald's."

"Not before eating your breakfast, darling." After making him take his usual seat, the barmaid-turned-innkeeper put a bowl of porridge, some toasted bread with jam, two fried eggs with sausages, fresh juice, and a jug of milk in front of him. The mage felt nauseated. "Remember to eat everything. You are scrawny, my little son, and I refuse to let one of my children look like… an undernourished fox," Tika hissed viciously. She tenderly caressed his auburn hair and kissed him on the cheek again, then returned to the kitchen. Raistlin knew she would search the room later for any sign of leftovers.

Seriously thinking about magicking the food away, the mage saw his new best friend approach the table with its usual awkward gait. It was a stray black cat, with only a single eye and a torn ear. The poor beast had been a scrag before its extremely profitable association with Raistlin. Now, it was an incredibly fat cat, so huge it was knock-kneed due to its weight. The man called it 'Salvador'.

As it did everyday, Salvador went under the table as stealthily as his girth allowed it, rubbed itself on Raistlin's legs and waited impatiently for its breakfast to come. It knew better than demand it aloud though; the harpy two-legs with long, red fur would come, a suspicious expression on her face, to make sure her cub swallowed up to the last bite. Then the poor cub would feel ill ─his paunch was as small as a kitten's─ and Salvador would feel hungry.

Raistlin stroked Salvador's head. Except for birds, he had never been fond of animals, but he could not help becoming attached to his saviour. After passing the food surreptitiously to the cat, he witnessed the speed with which it made his breakfast disappear down its throat. It never failed to amaze him.

"You are a good friend, Salvador," he whispered as the cat wobbled to the hole he used to enter the common room, already almost too small for him to fit. Raistlin wondered briefly if his not so little friend wasn't a bit too fat. Maybe it was time to make it be on diet; it wouldn't do to lose Salvador to either bad health or a too small hole.

He drank the juice and threw the remaining milk into the beer keg. Then, he brought the dishes and jugs to the kitchen, contorting his features into a grimace of satiety. He also moaned softly, to be safe.

"Ooooo… Here, Mom, take these."

Tika's smile was bright. And sadistic, Raistlin thought.

"Are you finished?"

"Yes, but do you think it's necessary for me to eat so much? I'm barely able to move…" he pleaded.

"My dearest, you are all skin and bones!" The woman took his face with her hands. "So full of hard angles, where healthy roundness was before."

"Mom, that was baby fat," Raistlin protested, exasperated. "I'm merely on the side of thinness. I will explode one day if you continue to fatten me up so much."

"I know what's best for you, darling. I'm your mother, after all." No you are _not_! "If I don't force you to eat, you won't do it yourself, and then you… will turn bad, my pet. And I don't want you to."

Raistlin stopped himself from snorting. Of course, she was referring to him, her brother-in-law. What had bad appetite to do with evilness? Nothing at all. Nevertheless, he suspected that Tika's reluctance to 'allow her son to become a hungry, evil man' was more due to himself looking like… himself than anything else. If his twin was obsessed with making his son the very picture of the 'ideal Raistlin', his wife was as much obsessed with erasing any sign of his existence.

He sighed in defeat. Salvador's diet should wait.

"All right, Mom, you win. Now I'm going." The wizard bore her insufferable petting with resignation, then ran away as swiftly as he was able to.

Once outside, Raistlin walked to the closest staircase. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dezra speaking with a giggling young woman. The latter seemed familiar, but he couldn't place her. He shrugged, if the girl was stupid enough to allow one of the Majere sisters to con her, it was her fault. That was not his problem.

At least that's what he thought.

* * *

The Murky Boozer was a tavern of disreputable nature located in a shadowy crossroad of lesser-used paths leading to Newport to the south, and Solace to the north. Many would have termed it a den of thieves and cutthroats, and rightly so. It was a place where brigands and outlaws came to share some drinks with their peers after an arduous day of robbery and killing.

The owner was a hardened assassin that, having survived her life-risking career, had retired, and now occupied her time quenching the thirst of other delinquents with watered beer and lending an understanding ear to their occasional talkative clients. The middle-aged woman was respected among the patrons for her wisdom and her swift dagger.

That day had been a quiet one, everyone was out on the road making the most of the high months for crime that spring provided. Therefore, it was with great surprise she looked up from the little experiment with poisons she was carrying out on the counter to discover one of her best clients entering her tavern.

"Good afternoon, Groogh. What brings you here at this early hour?" she asked kindly. It was strange to see Groogh alone, the half-ogre was almost never separated from his older brother, Trucho. "Where is your brother, and the rest of the boys?"

The half-breed sat down heavily on the sturdy high stool in front of her, at the other side of the counter. "Dead, they all are dead, Lucy."

"Dead? How is that possible?" Trucho's gang was known for its deadliness and common sense when it came to choosing their victims. "What happened?"

"Well you know, we were at the northern part of the Hanged Path, at the branch leading to Solace," the burly bandit began his tale of woe, anger strong in his voice. "Our intention was to position ourselves near the road to Haven, but Raskall came and said someone was riding up the path towards us. Young men, he said, two warriors and a lad wearing white robes. Easy prey, we all thought, so we got ready to ambush them."

"I assume they were not."

Groogh shook his head in despaired negation. "Not at all."

"I was a bit behind, amid the trees, preparing the ropes and the knots, and that saved me. The warriors dismounted, bristling and with hands on the hilt of their swords, but the kid refused. I'll never forget his frozen eyes as he regarded the band with a haughty grimace. Without a word, ignoring everything said to him, he raised one hand, pointed at them with a finger, and simply said one word: "Die."

"And then every one of them collapsed to the ground. Dead."

The big man suppressed a sob. One of his paws covered his face. "One of the warriors even said that spell was very cool!" Unable to hold it back anymore, the half-ogre burst into tears. "The bastard killed them all and never missed a beat! How insensitive can a human be?"

Lucy refrained from commenting that the gang would've slit the throats of the three men the moment they were subdued. Ah, the dangers of the bloody trade; Trucho's men had finally met a fish too big for them to catch. She wondered at the distraught half-breed's story though; the spell he described was much too powerful for a wizard as young as the one he described. It was intriguing, but it was not her problem; that mage had powerful spells, and the former assassin wouldn't want to be on the bad side of any being that could kill with a word.

Meanwhile, Groogh's tears of sorrow had turned into a snort of rage.

"By Hiddukel's dagger, I swear I'll kill the swine! I'll revenge you, my brother, you'll see!"

Lucy sighed. Some days it seemed that even the toughest had a death wish.

* * *

The Head of the Black Robes appeared in the single classroom of the school of magic knows as Poolbottom with a resounding crack, amid a cloud of bluish smoke. Such additions weren't necessary for the spell to function, but he liked the effect his theatrical entrances had on the mob, which always left them awed and terrified of the mighty elven wizard in black, sulphur stink notwithstanding.

His arrival, however, was not received with the suitable ohs and ahs or the scared faces the dark elf enjoyed so much. The snot-nosed students were absent; the classroom was empty. That didn't help to mollify his dark mood in the least; he needed the grovelling of the masses to boost his presently damaged ego.

He was not even here on his volition, but as a side effect of the misfortune that had befallen him in these late times. Jenna was being completely insensitive to his adversity, to the point of considering him the only one to blame, and had gone to her father to tell him of her dissatisfaction. Being the insufferable daddy he was, Justarius had taken offence at the brazenness of the dark elf that dared to displease his dear little daughter so. Therefore, the Head of the Conclave, as a veiled punishment for his insolence, had sent Dalamar to this rundown place to investigate the death of a useless old teacher.

Nearly growling in anger and frustration, the Silvanesti looked around, trying to locate anyone to begin this so-called _investigation_. Nevertheless, the whole school appeared deserted, until he reached the kitchen and saw Palin Majere tinkering with some pots.

"Oh, well met, master Dalamar," said the boy in his too gentle voice.

The dark elf swished his loose robes as he entered the dirty room, noticing that his effort was wasted on the unflappable young mage that regarded him, kettle in hand. Dalamar glared at the expression of beatitude the human displayed, contrasting with the bleakness of the silent school. On another occasion, his sweet smile would have sent shivers down the Black Robe's spine, but at that moment he was so angry he barely registered it.

"Where are the students?" snapped the Silvanesti.

"Am I to assume that you are here to investigate the circumstances of master Theobald's death?" asked the White Robe, his smile never wavering. "I'm honoured you deign yourself to grace us… I mean the school and I with your presence. As for the pupils, I sent them away until this matter is solved and a suitable replacement for the position is found. Nonetheless, if you have need of them to give testimony, I can make them attend."

The Black Robe shook his head. "I haven't the least desire to deal with the brats unless it is absolutely necessary; I can't stand them," he said, his hand dismissing the mere idea with a gesture. "However, you don't seem too saddened by your master's death."

Palin had crouched to hang the kettle from the bar that crossed the interior of the fireplace and turned his head to look up at the elder wizard. "I _am _sad. Master Theobald, nevertheless, was a very old man, full of ailments and already lacking the patience or energy to deal with the younger pupils. His time was already approaching, so my sorrow for the loss is balanced with the knowledge that he is now in Solinari's realm, free from his miseries."

"However, I'm also puzzled by the strange nature of his death."

"You don't seem puzzled."

At this, the young man's mild expression changed briefly to one of perplexity, then he smiled a faint smile. "No? That would mean I'm getting better at hiding my emotions. Everybody told me I was like an open book, too easy to read. It wouldn't do me any good to reveal my intentions to my enemies just displaying them on my face, so I did some training before the mirror to change that."

The Silvanesti raised one eyebrow. "Do you have many enemies?"

The White Robe stood up, hardly holding back a laugh. "None that I know of yet, but that could change if I do as I intend and go with my brothers into adventure. Please, come with me, I'll lead you to the room where the… master Theobald is." The human went outside the kitchen, missing the dark elf's narrowed eyes.

Dalamar's anger grew. Palin Majere was not to be allowed a life of adventuring! That way he would not only be unfettered but unmonitored too, and he needed the boy watched carefully. Even if he was a bumpkin, humble origins didn't always lead to humble lives or aspirations, as in the case of the idiot's uncle or himself. Yes, he was soft and meek, very different from power-hungry Raistlin, but there was something in him that not only exasperated the dark elf, but also scared him. In addition, too many strange things had happened since his Test, which had also been cause for concern.

"You seem bring death where you go, young magus," he said nastily, and he delighted in the pained grimace on his smooth features. When Palin turned to face him, his eyes were full of confusion and hurt.

"Why do you say so?" the young man asked, resentment clearly tingeing his gentle voice.

Ah, his training is not too good, thought the Silvanesti, gloating to himself.

"Par-Salian also died during your stay at Wayreth."

Again confusion marred Palin's features. "He was still alive? But how old was that man?"

"Too old for anyone's liking," murmured Dalamar, carefully studying the other man's reactions. He seemed truthfully baffled. "Nonetheless, his death, as your master's," he sneered the last word," was too strange to be merely dismissed as natural."

He didn't mind at all why or how the geezer had died, not even if it had been at the clutches of a rabid dragon. Justarius had been very precise in his assignment, though; return when the matter is solved, or don't return at all. And Dalamar refused to renounce his comfortable Tower and the army of apprentices desirous to grovel at his feet. Or the couturiers willing to make him the most fashionable robes in the continent.

"And why would that be?"

"Well, no one could specify the cause of his death, not even by means of divination. It seemed as if the old man had died several times, in different ways."

"That's proof enough I didn't have anything to do with it," said the brat. "I'm merely a novice; I don't posses the kind of power needed to… kill anyone several times. Not that I would like to, of course."

The dark elf shrugged, conceding the point. After all, he hadn't even suspected the boy's implication in Par-Salian's long awaited decease, he just wanted to toy with him a little. As the uncle had liked to do with him.

They arrived at the small room where the corpse was kept. Dalamar grimaced at the stink and covered his nose and mouth with a silken handkerchief before getting closer to it. "Couldn't you preserve the body a bit better?"

The young man stared at the Black Robe, a slight frown marring his brow. So much for keeping a cool façade. "I would have, if I were powerful enough to cast a stasis spell. But then, it wouldn't be necessary for you to be here investigating his death, would it? I put it in the coldest room in all the school."

Ah, the boy was bitter about his lack of power. Interesting. Maybe he was not as unflappable as he seemed.

"He seems… terrified," Dalamar commented after observing carefully the deceased's face for some long moments. "What happened?"

"That's what confuses me. Let's see… Master Theobald summoned me two days ago, so I came here in the morning. He wanted to speak to me about one missive _you _had sent him, and we went into his study to discuss it. I did read it and, when I looked up again, he was like this, I mean, dead."

Nodding absently, Dalamar performed some quick spells to determine the cause of the death and if magic had been involved. He frowned at the results. No magic, no physical injuries or fatal illnesses. Apparently, the old man had died of fright quite simply.

"Did you notice anything unusual?"

"Nothing at all. It was as if he had seen something truly terrifying, but there was nothing apart from us. And I don't think the boys would've dared to play one of their annoying jokes with me there; you see, they are quite fond of me. Anyway, I questioned them and they seemed to speak the truth; they were too sleepy. However, if you prefer to speak with them personally…"

"No, no, I don't think it will be necessary," Dalamar hurried to reply. "Nevertheless, you must admit that the circumstances are very strange."

"That's why I said I was puzzled. Am I a suspect, master Dalamar? If so, I would prefer you to carry out the inquiries drinking a cup of tea in the study, and not here, with… a dead… man. That way you can examine the study too," Palin asked calmly, as if the assumption didn't worry him.

The elven wizard thought that the younger Majere son would never hurt a fly, he probably cried when accidentally killed any. However, he had to carry out an investigation and he had nothing apart from a corpse that didn't tell him much, and the boy. So the boy it was. Moreover, he wanted to question him about the missive he had sent to the dead man. Thus, he nodded his head in agreement, leaving for the so-called study while the human went to fetch the tea.

The "study" was a room more likely used for napping than anything else. Its walls were almost bare of shelves and the few of them were nearly devoid of books. It was pathetic; it didn't even have that sensation of otherworldliness the dwelling places of mages exude, not even slightly. After checking again for the presence of magic by means of his spells, the dark elf concluded that his senses were accurate indeed. No arcane forces had been worked here, ever. His handkerchief held more energy than the whole room.

"Have you found anything revealing, master Dalamar?" asked Palin as he put down the tray with the kettle and the cups.

"Was Theobald really a wizard?"

"He used to say he was restrained with the magic. I know it's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but I think he was merely not very good at it. However, he passed the Test and had his teaching certificate." He pointed to a yellowed parchment put up on the wall, nearly merged with it. "Please, take a seat, master Dalamar. May I serve you some tea? You seem a bit… frustrated." Had his blue eyes glinted fleetingly with malice or he had just imagined it?

The Black Robe refrained from biting the younger man's head off with considerable effort. Surely he couldn't know of what had befallen him! And he _was _frustrated. Therefore, he chose to file the comment as the stupid concern so typical of naïve White Robes. On the other hand, he absently noted the way Palin kept caressing the cover of the single book on the table, it was disturbingly reminiscent of his uncle. It was really eerie. That reminded him of his reasons for sending his missive.

"It's nothing to concern yourself with," the elven mage almost snarled. "However, I would like to know why my suggestion was not followed."

His features painted with wonderment and abashment, cheeks lightly stained red, the immaculately-clothed human raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Simply because it was a _suggestion_, master Dalamar."

"And what made you refuse my proposal, young magus?" Dalamar questioned, before sipping some of the offered tea. He looked down at the chipped clay cup in surprise. It was good! He had not tasted a tea as good as this since… since ages, he thought. The elf saw how the human's smile widened in pride and satisfaction at his evident approval. "This blend is excellent."

"Thank you, master Dalamar. I consider myself a sort of novice herbalist, but everybody says I have a knack for teas. I'll give you some of this one if you wish. Concerning the position, I don't think I'm up to the challenge; I'm too young and inexperienced to handle such a task. Being in charge of the education of our future wizardry generations is a great responsibility, one that a more capable mage should take."

Those puppy blue eyes were so full of shame and sadness, the dark elf had no alternative but to believe the truthfulness of Palin's mournful assertions. The lout thought that being a teacher was an _honour_. How very different to his uncle in that regard!

"We know it is a great responsibility, but one you can manage, rest assured."

"But I wanted to go with my brothers for a while and see the world and learn new things before settling," pleaded the white robed wizard.

Anger returned in full force to Dalamar. He wanted the little creep here, monitored and weighed down by the ungrateful job. Swift as a striking viper, the Silvanesti stood up banging his hands against the table and brought his face close to the human's until their noses were almost touching. His slanted eyes smouldered and his tea-sweetened breath was hot against the other's cheek. "You will do as ordered!"

Strangely, the eyes of the boy didn't reflect any fear or surprise, only an uncharacteristic coolness. However, he lowered them quickly, the very picture of misery. "I cannot."

"And why not?" hissed the dark elf, feeling his blood boil. How _dare_ he?

"Because Uncle Raistlin wouldn't want me to be a teacher," Palin said.

Enraged beyond control, the Black Robe grabbed the human by the shoulders and shook him violently. "You little shite, you will become the teacher of this fucking school or I'll have you declared a renegade, do you hear me?" he barked. "You will… will…"

"Not be responsible for your death," whispered the young wizard, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible. The sorrow in his tone and eyes managed to calm the elf's fury, replacing it with apprehensiveness. He let go of him as the human continued: "He told me you would try to deter me, to hold me back because you fear I become like _him_. He said that he… that he had a spell with your name… it didn't sound very nice."

The Silvanesti blanched, apprehensiveness morphing into dread. He sat down heavily, his heart thumping painfully in his chest.

"Do you understand why I cannot, master Dalamar? I didn't say anything before because I didn't want to upset you even more, either in Wayreth or here."

Nodding shakily, the dark elf brought the cup to his lips, drank the remaining tea in one gulp, and served himself another. "I think it'd be better if you choose any other career," he said in a thin voice.

It was as if he had cast an enchantment upon the young man. His distressed semblance suddenly brightened, eyes big with joy and lips wide with a genial smile. "Thank you, master Dalamar!"

Agitated, the Silvanesti wished he'd brought with him a bottle of his light, elven wine to drown his sorrows. Sweet Nuitari, even the dead were against him! Why did the shadow of his _shalafi _continue threatening him? He only wanted to be the evilest, coolest wizard in the world, and for that he needed to be free of any likely hindrance or contestant. Perhaps was it too much? All right, he had betrayed his master to achieve his goals, and had kept his Tower for himself, but that was the way of the Black Robes. In his place, the _shalafi _would've done the same or even worse. However, here he was, frustrated, angry, and frightened, a shadow of the elf he was supposed to be!

"Um, sorry, master Dalamar. I must go home to have supper, or my Mom will come here in search of me."

The elven mage sighed and stood up. "I will come with you. The investigation is not yet closed and I've no desire to remain here for the night, I'd rather stay in your parent's inn."

"Well, since you are an evil influence, Mom will try to frighten you away and Father will pester you with tales of the 'old times', but it's your choice." The boy shrugged.

In the end, Dalamar accompanied the young man, preferring to brave Tika's motherly schemes or Caramon's verbal diarrhoea to spending the night in a depressing, lonely school that stank of dead human.

The walk to Solace was unexpectedly pleasant. Palin was like a puppy with an affinity to magic knowledge instead of to bones, his questions surprisingly clever and curious. Were he not feeling so dejected due to all his misfortunes, the dark elf would have enjoyed using his charm and coolness to impress that deficient copy of his former master. The peacefulness of the moment, however, was completely broken when a group of men, about thirteen, came suddenly from the trees into the road. All of them were heavily armed with a varied assortment of weapons, and at least seven bows were aimed at the mages. They were headed by an ugly, hulking man that didn't take his eyes off the Majere boy.

"You, sneaking bastard, you die this day," boomed the brute, wildly brandishing his two-handed broadsword. "We won't simply fall under your spell and die when you say so, as you did with my brother and the boys! My archers will run you through the very moment you open your dirty wizard mouth."

Dalamar, his stomach painfully knotted, saw how Palin looked at him out of the corner of his eye, unbelievably calm. Scornfully so. He had recognised the crude description of the spell for what it actually was: something the boy shouldn't even have been able even to dream about. And the human had undoubtedly noticed his reaction… He couldn't suppress a frightened whine.

Mistaking the source of the dark elf's distress, the bandits laughed. "Look at that elf, he's so shit-scared he's going to wet his fanciful robes! Hey, you brat, are you dumb? Why are you grinning like that?"

Overcome with dread, the dark elf absently thought that the leader of the brigands might have a little more common sense than the rest of the gang. The gigantic man stumbled back to the tress when the mild boy disappeared from the face of the human, superseded by a fierce man, his smile so wicked, so evil, that it was the scariest thing he had seen in all his life. Then the pale skin, blue eyes and auburn hair were also gone, the gleaming gold and white cutting short the merriment of the bandits.

The Silvanesti _almost _wet his robes as he witnessed the methodical and swift execution of those idiots who had dared to face the most powerful wizard on Krynn, knowing that he was probably the next. He was not a novice, but a mighty mage on his own; however, he was so terrified that even the thought of protective spells evaded his deeply scared mind. Shaking, eyes on the point of shedding tears of anguish, Dalamar waited for his sentence to be pronounced and carried out.

"The leader has run away. He seemed familiar… Oh, well, it doesn't matter," commented Raistlin in a conversational tone, as if he was speaking about the fine weather. He shrugged, turning toward the frightened elf. "Hello, apprentice."

Dalamar's response was a high-pitched, anguished whimper.

"Did the cat swallow your tongue?" the archmage smirked. He leant lazily on the Staff of Magius that a moment before had not been in his hand.

"_Sha-shalafi! _You a-are alive!" squeaked Dalamar, recovering his lost voice.

"You have such a gift for stating the obvious," mocked the human.

"But… but has it been you all the time? But your robes… the Test…"

"I'm so good at acting I would've been a wonderful performer were it not for the magic," said Raistlin, very proud of himself. "Not a soul has suspected a bit. And yes, it was me since the _incident _at the Tower."

"What did happen to Palin then? Did you lure him into the Abyss and then you possessed him? I understand perfectly your need of a handsomer body, your life must have been dreadful within that horrible husk you had…" Dalamar added in a conciliatory tone. Now convinced that his life was not going to expire at the hands of his former master in the next moments, at least, not until Raistlin had explained his grand scheme, gloating over his cleverness - drama was one of his weakness─ some of his courage returned to him. That would provide him with some time to convince his former master that he was more useful alive than dead… or undead.

"You still allow your mouth get the better of you, you'll never learn. For your information, I neither attracted my nephew to anywhere nor possessed him. This is _my _body, so refrain from insulting it again. And don't dare interrupt me with your sorry excuses! It was your fault that Takhisis took him prisoner," snarled the human wizard, making him cringe. The elf had brought up a tricky subject; Raistlin had been always been touchy about his appearance… Sweet Nuitari, he had called him _ugly_ to his face during his drinking binge in Wayreth! He was surely doomed! The archmage _never _forgot a slight and was more vindictive than Sargonass, the god of Vengeance.

After fixing a cool, pain-promising gaze on him, the archmage carried on with his story: "Contrary to what people are so fond of believing, I was _not _being tortured. I was sleeping peacefully until Lunitari and her dummy cousins decided to awaken me to charge me with the duty of saving the poor wretch. It seems that your stupidity allowed the Whore to make him enter her realm, where she waited for me to be forced to go to the rescue. To cut a long story short, the Bitch killed my nephew accidentally while she was trying to carve me up, and then the next thing I remember is awakening in Solace, with everybody calling me 'Palin'."

The elven wizard considered his story carefully. "I don't know what to think. Since it's so unbelievable I'd think it to be true, but you are so fond of preposterous lies I'm not sure anymore. I was so gullible, falling for your fibs, in Wayreth and back when I was your apprentice─like when you told me that rubbing nettles relieved sunburn…"

"Oh, I always thought you hadn't swallowed that one. I didn't see any rash."

"That's right, you didn't _see _it!" grumbled Dalamar, clearly remembering his pained bum as if it had been yesterday. "But no more!"

Raistlin's appearance had reverted to the Palin look-alike, or maybe he had always been that way, at least before the Test had changed him so drastically. But then, why had no one recognised him? The boy surely hadn't been a carbon-copy of his uncle, there must be some differences between them. He hadn't been able to spot them, yet he had not known the brat for more than several hours before he committed suicide by going into the Abyss; moreover, the father had been pestering him too much for him to pay attention to the features of the son. At any rate, what of Caramon and his goody-goody family? Perhaps it was that they, as the Heads of the Conclave had chosen to do, saw only what they wanted to see.

"And what if I do lie? What are you going to do then?" mocked the human mage. Then he sighed. "Believe it, for once it's the truth."

"Even if it was not, what else can I do? You'll kill me at the first sign of rebellion," whispered Dalamar, bitterness infusing his voice.

The scorn was back in Raistlin's. "Oh, such _impotence_."

The dark elf blinked repeatedly, eyes fixed on his master. After some astounded moments, they widened, first in surprise, then in happiness. "Does that mean that 'little Dally' isn't failing me on its own, that it's something of your making?" He felt like dancing in joy.

"'Little Dally'? No, I don't want to know. And don't ask me why I did it. Call it preventive punishment or simply evilness, I don't mind. You have your frustrations and free yourself from them dumping promising young wizards into a school and tying them down to the despicable trade of teacher; I get rid of mine frustrating my former apprentice. Now, bear it like an elf," he smirked.

"You are so cruel, _shalafi_. I suppose that you were also the one who sent that succubus to torment me shortly after your visit to Wayreth."

The archmage shrugged carelessly, not affirming it, but not denying it either.

"Then you killed Theobald."

"No, at least not directly," denied the more powerful wizard. His smirk twisted a bit more. "Actually it was your missive did that. I was so furious when I read it that my armour slipped back. The shock was too strong for his heart. Just like Par-Salian's first time. At least Theobald was less fussy and died silently."

There isn't any doubt, thought Dalamar, this is Raistlin; no one can be so carelessly callous. Well, one─no, two mysteries solved. The problem was what he was going to tell Justarius. "And why do you continue impersonating your nephew?"

The archmage stared at his former apprentice for long seconds.

"Do you know my sister-in-law?"

"Oh, yes, I see. She's known to be as fond of you as Kitiara was, or even less. But, once you were out of her reach, what? Why did you return?"

Another tense pause and that shrewd, cool gaze nailing his figure. "Dalamar, take off your robes."

"No, _shalafi_, please, allow me at least to die in a way more dignified than in my undergarments!" pleaded the dark elf. However, Raistlin refused and he began to undress amid shaking sobs. When he finished ─after trying to delay it as for as long as possible─, his sight was blurred and his nose was runny.

"Nice underclothes. Here, hold this and give me yours. And stop snivelling and look."

As he tried to wipe his eyes of tears, he managed to see Raistlin, also naked except for an unfashionable clout, put his clothes on. They were too big for the human, and he lacked the frame required to let them show how splendid they were. Then… "My beautiful robes! What have you done to them!"

"Now you see why I cannot reveal myself: Any garment I don becomes horribly white, apart from that black line in the hem. It would completely ruin my infamous reputation."

"My robes! My latest-fashion, blacker than blackest robes!" wailed Dalamar.

"My, you're taking it worse than when you thought I was going to slaughter you. Give me mine, yours are too fancy for my liking. Stop already; if you cry any harder your brain will come out your nose."

"You are an evil, cruel man, Raistlin Majere! Now what am I going to do with white robes? What of _my _reputation?"

"Well, that's not my problem, is it? As it isn't my concern what you are going to tell the crooks back in Wayreth about all this. I don't want to be pestered by your idiot peers yet. I like it better this way for the moment," he lowered his voice to an intimidating whisper. "Thus, you'll make sure they remain ignorant of my return, or 'little Dally', instead of merely being unresponsive, will not be attached to 'big Dally' anymore."

Pale and red-eyed, Dalamar nodded, all the while surreptitiously covering that precious part of his anatomy with a trembling hand.

"Find some idiot to fill the position of teacher of dunderheads and don't bother me again, understood? Come on, I want to get home before Tika gets suspicious. And yes, you are going with me, I need someone to eat my leftovers. And don't despair; if you are a good elf I might lift the curse on you and your 'little friend' will be as frisky as it ever was."

"That-that would be nice, _shalafi_. I won't tell a soul."

Raistlin handed him a small sack, full of fragrant dried herbs. "Good boy. Here. It tastes awful and won't stop the stomach cramps or the runs, but I'd advise you to take it unless you want the poison I laced your tea with to kill you," he said brightly, although before he could finish his sentence the Black Robe had already run for the trees at full speed.


	5. The Coward's Way, As Usual

Hello there. It's the author. Yes, I know it's been a long time since I last updated, but RL is... you know how it is, right? Anyway, here you have the next installment of this thing that began as a little parody of another fic and has finished having a life of its own... **  
**The next one won't play so hard to get, mind you.

A warning, dear reader: this chapter, and the next one, wallows a big in angst. Of course, not everything would be rosy for Raistlin, wouldn't it? After being so naughty, he deserves it...

By the way, see the little button down there? You can press it to keep the monster fed so that it can inspire me to write more of this... travesty. And thank you to those who'd bothered to keep it happy!

Thank too to my beta, Skull Bearer.

Now let us proceed to...

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Chapter 5: The Coward's Way, As Usual

If in previous weeks Raistlin had braved the coldness of early spring for the mere fact of awaking to the sound of birds, in the middle of the season he was forced to sleep with the shutters wide open under penalty of dying by baking. Solace had been plunged into a heat spell so punishing that its inhabitants shied from the wearying days and dragged them outside their homes in the stifling nights in search of a respite. However, the inclement weather offered none, so they went on sluggishly, lacking the energy to act as normal ─except for the two Majere sisters.

Laura and Dezra spent the whole day outside the inn, running mysterious errands all throughout town, at any hour of the day, but particularly in the evenings. It seemed that the Slicker was the leader in the enterprise they got involved in, so it was certain that there was money in the way. Whatever they were carrying out, however, the girls were bursting with enthusiasm.

The mage knew he should be worried by the level of activity of the two little devils, but he was too hot to care. In the first days of the heat wave, he had cast a spell to cool his bedroom, shutting himself within, but Tika had been "worried about her baby boiling himself to death in that small, gloomy room". Thus, in order to not raise suspicions in the sadistic ex-barmaid, the wizard gave up his nice, chilly seclusion and resigned himself to allow the heat to roast him slowly. To make matters worse, the middle-aged harpy had taken to watch him more carefully than usual since Dalamar's visit, probably chewing up some imaginary connection between the presence of the dark elf in Solace and his lack of appetite.

Thus, here he was, seated on a rickety rocking chair in the part of porch farthest from the entrance of the inn and the stairs, wishing he was as shameless as his nephews and the majority of Solace so that he wouldn't be suffocated under his sweaty robes. He had gotten the habit of walking to his 'secret place' near the lake in the early evening to be blissfully alone, but now it was too early even to think about leaving the protective shade of the vallenwoods. Leafing absently the book he had on his lap, he devoted his slothful thoughts to envy his apprentice, now coolly ensconced in his never-warm Tower. Maybe it would be a good idea to tell everything to go to the abyss, to give the boot to the elven dork, and to withdraw into the precious solitude of the Tower forevermore, colour-changing robes be damned. Of course, that would mean killing the conceited elf and his host of arse-lickers, and the mere idea of the effort that would entail exhausted him. Perhaps when the weather turned bit…

"Good afternoon, Palin," a definitely feminine, but shy voice interrupted his lucubrations. Looking up, Raistlin saw a young woman in a flowery dress so drenched in sweat that it clung to her like a second skin. Her hair probably was a vibrant, long mane usually, but now it was a wet mass stuck to her head. Not a lovely sight. He wondered what life-or-death matter had brought the lass here. "Would you want some lemonade? It's fresh made."

Oh, that was why she seemed so familiar; she was the loony that had braved the heat to bring him cakes last week. She had come at nightfall that time though, so her appearance was not so scruffy or damp. What was her name…?

"Thank you, Mirinda. Truth to be told, I'm parched. My mother seems to have forgotten about mthe." Fortunately. "You shouldn't trouble yourself with that though; it's too hot to fuss around."

The barmy lass, instead of taking the hint and clearing off, giggled as she blushingly poured lemonade into a wooden goblet she had in her basket. "It's no trouble at all. Besides, here it's better than in the mill with Father and Mother. The heat seems to have melted their brains and they are just annoying."

Well, they weren't the only ones. It ran in the family, apparently.

Raistlin took the proffered goblet, drinking it thirstily in one gulp. It was tepid, but it was better than nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her standing there nearby, with another goblet in her hand and unsure of what to do next. Even if he would have been in a gentlemanly mood ─which he was _not_─, he would not have been able to stand up and offer the seat to the girl. His soaked robes effectively stuck him to the chair. He could have, with some effort and a lot of embarrassment, but he was not willing to jeopardise his dignity, preferring to be considered rude. After all, _that _he was.

"Here, thank you. It was… uh… stimulating," he said, giving the goblet back. Surreptitiously, he tried to unstick his robes from his skin a little as he decided not to delve too much into the reasons that would lead a young woman like Mirinda to smile as brightly as if he had paid her a compliment.

"Do you want any more? The pitcher is not empty yet and you are hot," she murmured, coy.

"Yes, I am, but my stomach is a bit unsettled of lately…" _Will you take the hint and get lost?_

"You have a delicate stomach, don't you? I think the cakes I brought you last week didn't agree with you too much, poor you."

Why had the she-dunce to remind him of that shameful episode? That night Tika had been keeping him under sharp surveillance, thus not giving Salvador the chance to come to his rescue. He had been so stuffed, that just showing him the basket of offered sweets had made him sick there, in the middle of the common room. The Majere sisters had found it so funny that spreading the news of 'Palin the Girl-Puker' took them no time at all.

Disgruntled, Raistlin nodded, looking down again to his book and feigning he was engrossed in its study. Not even his plain rudeness kept Mirinda away though; she remained standing there like an idiot, staring at him with a smug half-smile that got on his nerves.

"They say you are now the best wizard of town," the irritating lass dared to interject. Moreover, she ignored his glower, blushing to a deeper shade of red and giggling instead. What was with that girl? Was she out of her mind?

"I'm the _only _wizard of town, so it stands to reason that I'm the most powerful one, no?" How low he had stooped; from the most powerful archmage in Krynn's history to the 'best wizard' of this rustic dump. It was depressing.

"Oh, but there's also old master Farnish," she protested.

"I don't think a farmer that uses cantrips to help to fatten up his pigs is worthy of the title of 'mage'," Raistlin retorted, feeling deeply insulted. His old tormentor at school had not had guts enough to pass his Test, and that alone should have provided him with some sense of vindication. At first, it had, but when he had gone to mock the geezer, he had found his former nemesis so decrepit, hard of hearing, and pathetic that it felt not worth it. In addition, the first and only visit was just depressing, reminding him that _he _was an old man too, and contrary to those of his same age, he had not _lived _his years.

Internally seething, the mage tried to curb any other Palin-unlike cutting reply. It was a hard task though; since he had returned to Solace he had been pestered by the merciless sisters, endlessly petted and nagged by nosy Tika, and plagued by his annoying twin. In addition, the awful weather and the nonsense of the young woman did not help to soothe his frayed nerves at all. To add insult to injury, the careless death of Theobald, Dalamar's visit, and the bandits' failed ambush only added more headaches. "You should realise that, for me to become even a _better _wizard, I need to study."

"Yes, of course, mages are studying all the time," she agreed obligingly.

"_In peace_," Raistlin snapped at last.

Instead of being taken aback, or at least insulted, Mirinda tittered again. "I understand. You must concentrate in your book and you can't while I'm here. How cute. I'm off now, then. I'll see you soon." She left, looking back every five minutes and waving at him until she was beyond sight.

The archmage in white grumbled to himself huffily, wondering how much time he would be allowed to mull over his lethargic cogitations. Not much, as usual, he supposed. It was a mystery how Palin had endured such family life, but he knew the boy had not been as unaffected as he had let everybody believe. Snooping–er, poking around his room a bit, he had discovered some sketches his nephew had drawn and then hidden. They were very well done, which only emphasised their disturbing nature. They were pictures of an unknown figure clothed in robes of undefined colour fireballing a big house full of screaming people, two little girls drowning in a lake —an empathising feeling—, two strapping young men being devoured in a very grisly way by horrific monsters —it seemed that the poor lad had harboured some resentment towards his brothers, probably because they left him at home to suffer—, a woman gorging herself up to the point of bursting, and a bulky warrior tortured by a very slim man in black robes. Why, not even the poems he had written in his youth about Sturm's ridiculous incipient moustache had been so visceral!

Suddenly, Raistlin started. What with it being so hot and him so deep in thought, he had fallen asleep, lowering his guard! The creaking steps were too close for him to run away and hide, so he used one of his new toys.

"Palin, where are you?" said Caramon, lumbering to stand in front of the rocking chair. "I was convinced he was here." He looked around then bent over to take the book from the wooden floor. He frowned. "How careless! Rai… _He _wouldn't ever have left behind one of his books, even less on the floor. Oh, but he seems to be waking up at last, perhaps the therapy was not as useless as I thought."

Raistlin wondered why his twin was so happy about his goody son reading a handbook on necromancy. And therapy? What had the dullard been inflicting on poor Palin?

He would have liked to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes, but Caramon was so nearby that he barely dared to breathe. He hoped the heat also undermined the idiot's perseverance.

After some minutes of glancing at the book and clearly not understanding anything, the big man shrugged. "Well, I'll leave it here for when he returns."

The wizard held his breath painfully as his twin made the gesture of placing the book on the chair, but in the end, he merely dropped it without even looking and left.

Any observer would surely wonder why the book stood floating in the air a little over the chair.

"Phew! Luckily, I had the ring on. He could have heard me if I'd cast the spell," Raistlin murmured, appearing again and rubbing his sore leg. The book had dropped on its edge, sticking on him so badly he had nearly cried out in shock and pain. Damn Caramon! Nevertheless, he considered himself lucky; he had managed to escape unnoticed this time. The invisibility ring was certainly a welcome boon.

Upon returning to his hometown, he had made a wonderful discovery: Raistlin's room. It was a tiny room ─more a broom closet than anything else─ that wizards throughout Ansalon used as shrine devoted to their most powerful and mysterious legend ─Raistlin himself. For his part, the worshipped one thought they were a bunch of hypocrites that possibly left offerings hoping to appease the supposedly deceased archmage for him never to return to Krynn. Ha! Their efforts were for naught! However, their two-facedness benefited him. The small room was full of magical trinkets, scrolls and tomes of lore like the handbook he had been glancing at, and even spellbooks, all of them protected from the eager fingers of kender. He had been thrilled when found that, although most of them were minor items ─merely tokens─, among them there were true gifts. Of course, the fake White Robe refused to insult their goodwill leaving the useful ones to get mouldy in there.

Consequently, Raistlin took the promising gifts and hid them in order to study them later, in the solitude of his room. There was only a snag: Tika was the one who kept the room in order, and she searched it constantly for any sign of a potential advent of her brother-in-law ─to put an end to it in an extreme manner. Therefore, the wizard replaced the items gradually with sham ones. Thus, he already had in his hands the nice ring ─which had helped him to evade Caramon more times he could count up─, a pair of scrolls with interesting spells, two books of dark lore, a nearly exhausted wand of wonder, and a wristband that he had no idea what it did but was both powerful and hideous.

The archmage wondered whether any of his worshippers were still alive or at least safe of limb. Idolatry was extremely frowned upon by the jealous members of the Krynnish pantheon. He marvelled at the fact he himself had not been struck down yet.

* * *

The weather improved over the week, sending its heating punishment to other areas of the continent, probably the ones occupied by the unlucky barbarian tribes. They were the object of the brunt of most misfortunes throughout history, probably because they were a bunch of savages wearing feathers in their attires. No one respected feathered uncivilised humans.

However, the cooler air and the invigorated avian neighbours did not improve Raistlin's spirits; he was so suspicious and tense he had become nearly paranoid, a nervous wreck in white robes. He required all of his steely control to bit his tongue and not to snap at anyone, his whole willpower to not throw himself into a killing frenzy and murder most of the Majere household. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't just do so and thus free himself from their pernicious meddling; it was not as if he wanted to redeem himself or anything ─hadn't perhaps he done so throwing himself to Takhisis' hating clutches and allowing his twin look the hero? However, he knew he would not find the yearned peace doing away with them; not only that herd of geezers who called themselves 'Heroes of the Lance' would take an interest on their abettors' deaths, but his deception would be revealed too. Then, the 'Heroes', the Towerers, and his other countless enemies would make his life a misery even more than it currently was; at least as Palin only misguided bandits tried to kill him. He bet that, giving free rein to his heart's wish, even Paladine ─who was fond of his puppet riff-raff─ would step in, possibly sending him that divine retribution called Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Many thought he was merely a kender, but Raistlin knew better; the little pest was the herald of doom for the Platinum Dragon's opponents.

In addition, there were his reputation as mighty archmage and his pride. The _curse _of the Three Cousins was a real bummer; it would make him the laughing stock of Ansalon. What self-respecting evil wizard would wear white? White was for kids, idiots, and fanatics. In addition, black matched best his golden skin and eyes… Oh, he did not have them anymore, but they could… return, so it was wise to be far-sighed. Raistlin was not a vain man like Dalamar, but he knew that appearance counted greatly with regard to people's reaction. There was nothing mysterious or disquieting in the colour of the goody-goody folks.

All in all, viewed dispassionately, it was not worth, killing the yokels. Besides, he merely had to wait until Tanin and Sturm set off again and he would come with them, to never return ─this time for real. The wait was a real bitch, certainly, and everyday that passed seemed uphill, but he was determined to endure.

That foreboding late afternoon Raistlin took one of his spellbooks and directed his steps towards his Secret Place, on the southern shore of the Crystalmir lake, near the mill and a nice quiet, leafy grove. He was in a rotten mood and needed solitude and peace to soothe his frayed nerves. Caramon and Tika had been arguing nearly all the morning in that hushed way they had, and the mage guessed he had been the subject of the argument. He always was. It was fortunate that Tika loved so much to keep up appearances, so at meal she had been wearing her best smile and her husband had remained silent on the sore point. The lout had tried to ambush him, probably to speak about something the wizard did not care to learn, but Raistlin was too much clever and knew the best nooks in the building. After hiding in several of them for nearly all the afternoon, he made his escape at the first chance. As clever and crafty as he was, he knew he would run out of luck some day. The hateful Laura and Dera had an inexplicable way of thwarting him; he was not sure they were able to see through the invisibility of the magical ring, but was not willing to risk it. They seemed to sniff him out.

So engrossed in his dark thoughts Raistlin was, he was not aware of the danger lying in wait for him until the open-handed hit him in the cheek so hard he saw his own constellation.

The attack was so sudden and unexpected, he could only look dumbstruck at the red-faced young woman that glared at him with undisguised hate. "You-you miserable wretch!" So great was her anger that her entire frame shook. "You lying bastard!"

"What! What's the matter with you, Mirinda?" asked the bewildered wizard, rubbing his aching cheek. He was sure he now bore a five-fingered red mark. A little voice inside his head wondered why he had not lashed out yet; after all, he was in the mood. Or had been. Maybe the slap had stupefied some part of his brain, neutralizing the anger.

"You're an awful, horrible man, Palin Majere! You-you cheat!" the girl spat.

Raistlin wiped calmly his throbbing cheek with a clean rag he kept in one of the hidden pockets of his robe just in case his cough decided to return. He stared at the young woman with as much dignity as one with a now swelling jowl could. He wondered why curiosity had not followed the same path of anger. "Instead of insulting me, would you care to explain their reason?"

"How you dare to ask? You said you loved me!" she shouted.

The white-robe man looked apprehensively towards the town; her shrieks had been likely been heard from there. Then, the full meaning of what the girl had said hit him with nearly as much force has her hand had.

"What!"

"I should've paid attention to Mother! You're just like your uncle, feigning to be interested in an innocent girl just to ignore her at the moment of truth!"

"What!"

"The tales tell that he was an evil man, but you're much eviler than him! He at least never declared his undying love to a woman! Why did you do it if you couldn't love me? Just to make fun of me? Have you laughed hard enough, you vile mage?"

"When did I do that?" he asked, already beyond bewildered.

Instead of answering, Mirinda hurled at him a crumpled parchment. He read it and paled, then narrowed his eyes in fury. "This piece of… of drivel is not mine! I never wrote these inane words! This is not even my handwriting!"

"No?" The wench's eyes widened, anger draining from them before the wrath in the wizard's.

"No. At all. Here, look at my spellbook. No, not this page, or you'll become insane." Well, more than you are now, he thought. "Look at these notes."

"'I should devise a way to put an end to the old goat's…'"

"Ah, enough. I did mean to _look_ at the handwriting, not truly _read_ it. They aren't even similar, are they? I bet Laura or Dezra wrote that," Raistlin said, putting away his book into his bag.

"Now that you mention it, they were the ones who gave me your letters…" the girl muttered, downcast.

"I should've known," the mage sighed. "How could you fall in love with a man that writes such stupid things? 'My desire is fierier than a fireball', 'I feel like the target of a charm person', 'If I were powerful enough I'd Wish us to be together forever'… Do you think I'd write _this_ to anyone I was in love with?"

"Well, it was weird, but since you wizards are weird too…" Tears began to form in Mirinda's eyes. "Since I know –everyone knows– that mages love magic, I thought it was nice that you used it to describe what you felt. That felt so… magely."

Oh. Clearly, the populace still misunderstood wizards. They probably thought that mages used burning hands spells to light the hearth…

"I'm so sorry, Palin! I shouldn't have hit you; I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up, after what Mother told me. But your… the letters were so nice in a way, and you were so cute I thought you were different. But your father… I'm so sorry!" she wailed and turned away, running towards the mill at full speed.

Raistlin wondered how she managed to sprint and wail like a banshee at the same time with such efficiency. "Hey! Hey, don't go! You must tell me what you meant about my uncle!" the shouted after her. "Blast it! I _must _know!" And followed suit.

He had never been athletic, not even in this new incarnation, but seeing as a crying girl covering her face with her hands face and wearing long skirts broke away, leaving him behind, was humiliating. He considered for a moment giving up the chase; the curiosity gnawing his insides was stronger than pride thought, so he tucked up his robes and followed the barmy lass, just hoping this indignity would not be witnessed by anyone.

After what he considered a lifetime of running –in fact, only a few minutes–, he fast crossed some thick bushes through which the girl had disappeared, only to trip on an upright flat stone and fall to the ground, face-first.

"Damn!" he growled. Now, in addition to a swollen cheek, he had a muddy face and robe. Annoyed, he kicked the offending stone, but his foot turned out more hurt than the slab. "Ouch! Damn!"

Giving a quick glance at his surroundings, he realized he was in a backyard, the mill's in fact. The crying girl had likely gone through the door that led to the main building, because he could not hear her loud lamentations anymore. He stood and tried, futilely, to clean his robe with the rag, only to resign himself to wipe his face as much as it was possible. The cloth was almost immediately filthy. It was then when Raistlin realized that the stone he had tripped on was, actually, a gravestone. Looking closely, he could make out a name engraved on it, eroded by time and weather.

"Gabriel Raistlin Thrael. Beloved son. 345-347," he whispered. The words sent a shiver down his spine. "What's the meaning of this?"

The back door of the mill opened, to allow the exit of a middle-aged woman. Once upon a time, she had been an admired beauty, but sorrow more than time had erased the prettiness, leaving a weathered serenity behind. Her eyes widened at seeing him, then filled with sadness.

"Oh, you look so much like him," she said softy, to herself, although Raistlin managed to hear it. "I understood that you both were alike, but I never imagined it would be so much."

The white-robed mage had the nagging feeling he knew the woman, watching her warily as she approached.

"I'm sorry about what you've been through because of my daughter. Please, forgive her; she didn't intend to hurt you. She was in love and wouldn't understand. As I did," she added to herself. "And now she's heartbroken."

"Mirinda…" Oh. How could he have been so blind? The names! True, the girl looked nothing like the mother had, but… "Miranda," he mouthed soundlessly. Confused, he regarded the woman that long, long ago had broken his own heart, then the gravestone, and the aging woman again. "But…"

A twinge of pain twisted his insides. An inexplicable grief filled that part of him that he had thought –wished– dead long ago. When Miranda hold out her hand to touch him, he stepped back, breathing heavily. Why did she look at him with such sorrow and pity? He did not want them!

Turning right around, Raistlin fled.

* * *

Sitting on the ground with his back against his own tombstone, the archmage gazed absently at the starts shining in the nocturnal sky, mocking him. Night had already fallen over Solace, but he did not want to return to the Inn and to the Majeres'. They would be looking for him; he knew, however, that no one visited Raistlin's tomb, ever –they feared too much Tika's wrath–, save Caramon for its tending, so they would not come here searching for him.

He allowed bitter remembrances to come to his mind, memories he had tried to bury under his devotion to the magic. It had never worked completely; the sourness of his younger years would always keep him company to emerge in times like these. Nevertheless, he had thought he had left behind pain such as the one that was torturing him now.

He did not understand completely what happened earlier with Mirinda and her mother, but he felt that it did not bode well for him. He had done the maths, the child had been conceived roughly when Miranda had been involved with his brother; but then, rumours had that she had bedded half the young males of Solace, and she finally had married the miller after a scandal. Even so, why did that dead baby bear his name? He remembered the girl's angry words sharply: 'You're just like your uncle, feigning to be interested in an innocent girl just to ignore her at the moment of truth.' However, that made no sense. It had been just the opposite; Miranda had deceived him, making him believe she had taken an interest in him, only to dispel all his childish delusions by having a roll in the hay with his twin. Witnessing it had been painful, but it had probably been for the best; it had likely saved him much more grief later. He had feigned nothing, he had even considered renouncing –even if briefly– to his magic for the wench's sake, by the Gods! He had allowed himself to be duped, and the price had been his broken heart; the result, a vow of swearing off fickle love.

No, it made no sense at all.

The archmage pondered the tormenting mystery for long moments, reclining against the stupid shrine Caramon had built just to have a really great time drowning in his grief for his "deceased" brother. He should be sleeping, as the inscription stated. In peace. Then he decided that, for the moment, he might be happy with doing it in a bed and not on the hard ground.

When he reached the rear door of the Inn of the Last Home, Raistlin's melancholy had evaporated; the mere sight of this place angered him. For most people, it was a milestone, a place of worship and legend, of solace and rest; for him it was a huge and veiled torture chamber. He wished nothing but seeing it aflame. With its owners inside, like in Palin's picture. He would miss the spiced potatoes, although not very much; after all, they gave him heartburn.

He entered the inn quietly, but apparently not enough to deceive the senses of the guard on watch waiting for his arrival. The wizard heard the scrapping of a chair against the wooden floor and a light came into sight. For once, he was lucky; it was Caramon. He was not in the mood to put up with Tika's screeching.

"Where were you, young man?" the big man chided.

The venom in Raistlin's glare was so malignant, so evident, his twin stepped back, alarmed. "It is not your business," he sneered. "I am a growth man, not a boy anymore. You have no saying in my affairs, so leave me alone."

Even taken aback by so uncharacteristic reply, Caramon worried about his dirty appearance. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his tone full of that dogged concern that had exasperated the younger twin even as he was a child.

"As I said, it is not your business. I will not stain your floor with my blood, if that is what you are worried about," he answered with his own scorn, heading for his bedroom, not giving him a second glance.

If he had, he would have shuddered at the grin that widened his twin's lips.

* * *

Even thought Raistlin was deathly tired by dawn, he got up. After quickly gathering his things, all of them, he got dressed and dispelled the guards that had protected him from the sisters with an indolent wave of his hand. Then he left what had been his room for the last months without a second glance.

During his short hours of rest, he had decided that Palin was going to suffer a bout of defiance and run away from his parent's home. He was fed up with most of the Majeres, and did not want to put up with them anymore. It saddened him to abandon his nephews, but it would be better this way, at least for himself.

He reached the stables without any incident, getting rid of the neighbours he passed on his way with a greeting, a smile, and some inane words. Just as well, he was not in the mood to deal with overly curious yokels.

Studying at great length the animals, he chose the horse more to his liking, incidentally the best of the stable and began to put on it the trappings. Once he girthed the saddle in place, he began to buckle fastidiously the saddlebags. A harrumph interrupted his preparations.

A bulky figure stood in the doorway of the stable. Tanin approached quickly and held the horse by the bridle, a deep frown on his moustached face.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To go for a ride," mumbled the wizard.

"Oh, yeah, with the saddlebags full of your things, eh? Your spellbooks, your robes, even your winter clothes, and your staff strapped to the saddle," accused the first-born Majere.

The easiest way to be off the damned town would be enchanting Tanin or merely pushing him aside. Nevertheless, Raistlin was fond of his nephew, as he was of Sturm too, and did not want to hurt them. They were the only worthy members of the Majere household, their only sin being blind of their brother's suffering. The wizard knew that the strong warrior would not take well to being bested by magic, so he opted for another path.

He offered his nephew his best award-winning puppy eyes. They had won him the heart of a clerical ice-maiden, so they _should_ work on one as gullible as his twin's older son.

"Tanin, please, you must let me go. I can't stay here anymore; it's too dangerous for me and… Solace itself," he pleaded. "If I remain here something truly terrible will happen, particularly to our family." Yes, truly terrible, at least from the young man's viewpoint: He would personally set fire to the Inn with its proprietors locked up inside, and he supposed that, in his murdering thirst for revenge, he would not pay any attention if destruction spread to the rest of the town. "I must go, to keep it away from you and the others."

The warrior Majere regarded him with something akin to stern approval, although tinged with scepticism.

"That's very noble on your part. Still, you don't need to make excuses."

"Er ─What do you mean excuses? I'm talking about…"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You see, l know your secret. I know why you really want to leave."

Raistlin regarded his nephew in silent horror. How had the young man discovered his secret? He had been extremely discreet and covered well any track he would have left. Had the would-be knight not fallen for his explanation about the spell that felled the bandits? Or perhaps was it that he remembered the jam with the succubus? Had he let fall his Palin-mask any other moment save the last night confronting Caramon?

Taking advantage of the silence of his gob smacked 'brother', Tanin continued before the mage had the chance of bewildering him with words, as he was fond of doing. His tone was placatory, soft. "And I understand; I know how hard it must be for you to think that you are failing their expectations. I don't know if I would've been able to feign I'm someone that I'm not in reality, and I think you must be suffering greatly for that."

Damn! His charade to the Abyss! Maybe it was still not too late for a few well-placed forgetfulness spells…

"All these girls pining for you, and you…" The corpulent young man sighed. "And I know you think Father is the worst. I've seen you avoiding him like the plague so don't try to deny it. You don't want to disappoint him, but you can't fight what you are."

The fake Palin blinked. What was Tanin talking about? One moment his encouraging tirade was leading to Raistlin's doom and the next one, it had turned into complete nonsense. As if he cared two hoots about the lout's approval!

"But I'll have you to know that he'll be understanding, just as he was with…" He looked around fearfully, expecting to see a fearsome monster emerging from the shadows to strike him down. "You know who."

All right, Tanin was not speaking about _him_, but about _Palin_. He had not been discovered yet. Nevertheless, what the devil did he mean?

"What was father understanding about with 'I-know-who'?"

"You don't need to pretend, little brother. I spoke with Revered Daughter Albertus, you know, the cleric of Mishakal, about this and he reasserted my suspicions in that regard."

"I haven't the faintest idea of what do you mean. Please, quit beating the bush and explain yourself. I want to set off before I'm an old man," said the wizard.

"Well, it's about you being gay."

Raistlin regarded his twin's son, utter incomprehension in his eyes.

"What the abyss has anything to do with being bloody _cheerful_?"

Tanin rolled his eyes and sighed exasperated.

"At times I wonder if you really live at the present time with the rest of us mortals," the warrior snorted, visibly amused. "Not that kind of gay, but, you know, the other. Oh, c'mon, Palin, you know… as in fairy."

The archmage opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and opened it again.

"I AM NOT!" he shrieked some seconds after. He was more than furious, he was livid, but he knew he had to control himself or his secret would be forfeit. Raistlin forced himself to calm down and willed the golden armour of the Miiro not to appear, all the while glaring daggers at the younger man through narrowed eyes. If he had been able to come out undiscovered from the confrontation with his brother, he could manage in this strait too. Once he had tucked all thoughts about murder in that dark place in the depths of his mind where he kept record of every slight ever done to him, the archmage took a long cleansing breath, and let it go. In a frosty voice, he added, "And Uncle Raistlin was not either."

Tanin gasped at his audacity, quite expecting to see his fearsome mother appear on the doorway wielding her terrible frying pans in a berserk rage. "Shhhh! Mother might hear you! And don't be angry, I already said you don't have to be ashamed of it. I don't mind at all, and Sturm either. C'mon, Palin, you can't deny it anymore, we saw you those sidelong glances you kept casting to master Dalamar when he visited. I don't approve of your poor choice, he's not a good man and he doesn't deserve you, but I'm happy you at least got your affections returned. He was so obviously grateful you did!"

By all the gods of the multiverse, how could they have misread so badly his smug, vindictive glances at his apprentice? It was true that Dalamar kept looking at him hopefully, but it was because the elf hoped he would lift the curse from his now lifeless willie, not because the dork felt any sort of affection towards him!

At least, he hoped so.

"But that was the ultimate proof. In fact, we had suspected it all along, me and Sturm, even before Father explained us that... you know who was gay too."

"What!"

"We didn't say anything to you because we guessed you'd be disappointed, or just angry. We know he is sort of your role model. And we didn't want to scare you either. Father told us that you know whose misfortunes were due to him never accepting his sexuality; he refused to acknowledge it and it led him to a life of angst and bitterness, ultimately causing his downfall. There's a theory that holds that he wanted to become a god because that would allow him to change his condition."

That was _not _true in the least! Not at all! He did not even _want_ actually to become a god; he had been driven to kill the 'baddie dragon' by the Staff of Magius. Who had devised such a preposterous theory? Damn, and what was Caramon doing, spewing such idiotic –and wholly false– stories?

"You cannot allow it to gnaw you away, Palin. We'll support you when you come out of the closet, I promise. I know that in Solamnia your kind are badly thought of, but your brothers will fight foot and nail for you! Maybe there you'd find a nice knight to love you as you deserve, even if you are a wizard. Such cases might be rare, but not unheard of. Don't give up, little brother, we are with you!"

Ready to burst ─even though he did not know whether into tears or swear words─, Raistlin decided it was best if he just was off that very moment, before he was completely driven insane. Schooling his features into a mask of horror, he pointed to the street and gasped, "Mom's coming! She's heard us!"

As Tanin turned on his heels to face what he thought his doom, his uncle mounted with a deft movement, and spurred the horse, which went out the stables at a gallop, leaving the young man in the lurch.

"Palin, don't be silly! Don't run away!" the warrior called after him, realizing he had been duped. Swearing under his breath, he ran towards his horse and saddled it. He was ready to mount it when he heard a clinking sound. Looking down, he saw one of the horseshoes had come off. Cursing, he reached for another animal, only to discover that its horseshoes were also slackened.

"Hey, Tanin, I believe I've seen Palin riding out town like a bloody maniac. Where is he going at this early hour and alone?"

"He's just like… you know who. He has fled because he refuses to accept he's gay. And I'm not after him because the kid's done something with that magic of his!" he explained pointing the horseshoes on the floor.

Sturm's eyes widened in surprise and dismay. "We cannot let him suffer because that!" he said firmly. "Haven't you explained him he can rely on us?"

"Of course I did, but he refused to believe me!"

"We must follow him and bring him back before he does something foolish driven by anguish, like…" A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Or before he really accepts what he is but goes astray. He might elope with that dark elf that kept eyeing him some weeks ago! That nasty character will take advantage of our poor, distressed little brother!"

"I know! Just fetch the blacksmith to put the damned horseshoes on the horses' hooves!" he commanded. His younger brother complied hastily.

"Father and Mother are going to kill us."


	6. Catty Truths

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Chapter 6: Catty Truths.

Given the wicked nature of the sense of humour of the gods, one should not delve too much in the reasons they had to keep stressing that their mortal creations were their favourite children even as they tortured them to no end: Now drought, then floods; every once in a while a nice earthquake, plague or blight; and occasionally a world-shattering Cataclysm. How gentle they were with their faithful! Maybe the deities also were followers of the Inverted Logic. Anyway, as it was usual, those poor devils of the barbarian tribes bore the brunt of the gods' kindnesses. Perhaps the deities did not like feather pluckers. That would have been understandable in Sargonnas, the Condor of Spite, or Habbakuk, the Gay Phoenix, maybe in Chislev, the Barbaric Ecologist too, but in Shinare, the Moneymaker, or Paladine, the Scaly Bugger? Be that as it may, one or several of them had sent the terrible heat wave to desolate the plains of Abanasinia.

Raistlin, drowsy with heat and tiredness, thought along these lines. Had the gods nothing better to do than plague Krynn with stifling hot spells? Perhaps that was it; they were just dead bored. That would explain why Takhisis, even if she knew she had not a chance of winning, kept trying to enter and conquer the world. Boredom. How pathetic.

Without any specific goal in mind, the archmage rode aimlessly through the plains. Now that he was free, he did not know what to do with his liberty. He wanted to reach a little peace of spirit, and he was certain he would not achieve it as himself. Raistlin Majere was too powerful, too notorious, too a dangerous threat to too many. It was better to be Palin for some further time. Nice, unassuming, innoxious Palin.

He felt very sorry for his late nephew. If living as him had been a veritable torment, he could not even grasp how awful it had been for the boy. Never loved for what he was, always expected to be anyone else, arbitrarily tortured for no reason, and horribly misunderstood. The experience of walking on his boots had been dreadful; one that had opened wounds that Raistlin had never even known to exist and infected others that he had thought closed; one painfully enlightening, humbling, and maddening experience at the same time. The knowledge of two cruelly mutilated lives demanded retribution; for him, and for poor, unhappy Palin. Nevertheless, the black book lay on a dark corner, not forgotten, not discarded, but momentarily neglected. There were other matters of more importance to be dealt with at the moment.

Like escaping from the damned heat.

After giving it much thought, Raistlin decided to curse himself. Not in the way he had done with Dalamar, oh no, nothing so twisted and gratuitous. He cursed himself to bear a little storm cloud that poured rain on him and darkened the fiery beating of the sunlight. This little curse usually drove mad the unfortunate victim, never allowing her to feel warm and dry, barring her from places where her arcane wetness was not allowed. The wizard, however, held no fear; he knew he could dispel it the moment he wished. Sighing in relief, the archmage in white felt soothed by the crackling sound of the diminutive lightning that flashed in and out the cloud. Ah, that was much better! So nicely damp and cool.

A sudden movement among his saddlebags attracted his attention: One of them was shaking weirdly. Opening the strap, he discovered within a trembling ball of fur.

"Salvador, what are you doing here? How did you manage to get inside?" he asked, and immediately felt like an idiot since he knew the cat would not reply. The poor beast tried to keep himself away from the magical rain, hissing and spitting at the dark cloud. "Don't be silly, you were safe from it inside the bag. I enchanted them to be waterproof. It wouldn't do to ruin my supplies, or at least what you have left of them," he sighed as he noticed the crumbs on the animal's snout. Salvador licked its chops without remorse, cleaning away any sign of its roguery.

During the last weeks since the dark elf's visit to the Inn, Tika had been watching her 'son' like a hawk. Therefore, Salvador had gone without his tasty morsels for many, many days. As a result, he was not a fat cat anymore, but a slimmer shadow of his mighty former self. Just as well, that had allowed him to jump unnoticed into the bags of his pet human.

"You won't get wet if you remain inside, pussycat," the wizard explained patiently. "What's the matter with you? Why are you so up…? Woa!"

Unexpectedly, the world lurched and he found himself falling alongside his mortally wounded mount. Raistlin landed painfully on his left shoulder with a dull thud. Before he could regain his senses, an ugly giant of a man loomed over him wielding a two-handed sword.

"Not so mighty now, eh, you little bastard? Ha!" laughed the brute brandishing his weapon. He drew a lethal arc directed to Raistlin's body… and then jumped crying in distress and pain as a furry, hissing mass of claws and fangs attacked his face. "Argh! Take it off! Take it off!"

Not willing to waste that brief advantage surprise afforded him, the archmage sent awkwardly one of the most pernicious spells on his repertoire the way of the troubled leader's men. He had dreamed for long to use it on his brother, but it was not to be. Not yet. Squashing a sponge from one of his pockets, Raistlin made the brigands shriek in shock and agony, their skin, fat, and very bones drying before their eyes. When the sponge ─now reduce to a dirty powder─ stuck to his fingers, where the bandits had stood, now creased, wasted corpses lay.

The half-ogre managed at last to take off the beast that was savaging his face, throwing it away. Even so, it was too late. His new men were his no more, and the mage stood before him at a safe distance, staff in hand and evil glint in his eyes. The kid seemed injured, but not enough to be caught unawares by an attack, and most likely not enough to be reached by a strike. He had even made that weird cloud that had hovered over his head disappear.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" hissed the young man nastily. "Aren't you the same brute that attacked me and my elven companion in the woods of Solace?"

"The very same," growled the big bandit. "I'm Groogh, and I'm gonna kill you, little shit."

The human in white could not hold back a barking laugh of incredulity.

"But I've killed you men, what, two times?"

"Three. You killed my brother and the boys on the Hanged Path."

"Oh, now I know why you seemed familiar last time. Anyway, I just don't understand why you keep attacking me. Don't you see it's futile? I can kill you and your minions with a mere word, but you pigheadedly try again and again," he sighed, exasperated. "Do you know what? I'm fed with your clumsy murdering attempts…"

"But I would've managed to finish you off if your monster hadn't attacked me!"

"I wouldn't have been distracted if my monster hadn't drawn my attention away in first instance, so it's moot point," the kid replied haughtily. "I've had several extremely trying weeks, and you come now just crying to be put to death. I don't want to waste my magic on you, you're not worth it. So, let's see… Um, yes I know what I'm going to do with you, moron." The human's grin sent shivers along Groogh's spine. He saw as the young man searched the insides of his sleeves, never looking away from him. "There it is!"

The mage showed him a thin and sharp stick. With a somewhat pained grimace, he waved it in the air with his left had. "Let's see what this wand of wonder does to you! Don't look so distraught, my dear would-be murderer, its effects might benefit you. Although it's not likely."

Groogh thought about a last desperate lunge against the evil wizard. The world did not agree with that, however, becoming a bigger place just to spite him. The kid enlarged too, looking down at him with a frown on his scratched face.

Raistlin cursed under his breath when he saw the results of his toying. Fickle wand! Now a short, podgy white dragon regarded him with big, blue eyes full of dread.

_Kill the little bugger! _shouted a shrill voice, invading his mind with the raging desire of bludgeoning the beast to death. In his hand, the Staff of Magius vibrated eagerly.

"No! I won't allow you…" However, he was too upset to regain the control necessary to oppose the will of the not-subtle-anymore artefact, and the desire to exterminate the lizardy beast was lodged in his spirit.

Like a possessed man ─which he was─ not in control of his acts anymore, Raistlin ran after the retreating figure of the little dragon in a frenzied chase, dealing clumsy strokes with the Staff at the beast's back. The latter seemed to prefer risking his life jumping into a deep ravine. He might have been successful if his little wings were not as useless as it were. The miserable dragon plummeted.

With the beast out of his sight, Raistlin regained some of his senses, stopping himself at the edge of the steep gorge. The wretch had bounced several times on ledges, to end a boneless heap at the rocky bottom. The Staff prodded at the battered mage to finish him off.

"I'm not going to throw myself over a ravine to reach a faux-dragon that most likely has broken his neck. And if you dare to do _that_ again, I'll personally go looking for a red dragon to melt you under her fiery breath, understooooooooaaargh?"

* * *

Salvador reached the bottom of the ravine some hours latter, worried and distraught. How could his pet human be so clumsy! That edge had been loose, even a dog could see that! Stepping on it had been nothing but trouble! Among the rocks, he found the ugly, fat white dragon and, just on top of it, the human cub, badly wounded. The cat came close and licked softly his lacerated and bloody cheek, eliciting a pitiful moan. His poor pet! Salvador would not let him die here in the middle of nowhere! He refused to lose another dear pet.

No one knew it, but Salvador had been the familiar of a powerful Red Robe. The old woman had died when the cat had been still young, but he had never forgotten her gentleness. He had wandered the lands of Krynn for years, the magic of his former she-pet sustaining his long life, although he had learnt nothing but that most two-legs were cruel and unworthy of his kindness. Until he had met the cub with removable fake white fur. The unhappy young human had fed him, stroked him, and scratched him, not once being cruel to him or minding his fleas. Therefore, he had adopted the cub as his new pet. He knew him to be troubled by his family of two-legs, and Salvador helped him the best he was able, eating all the food the cub could not and making a fuss of him.

Salvador was a loyal friend, and staunch protector of his pets, so he flatly refused to abandon his gentle friend to his dreadful fate. Thus, sniffing the dry air of the plains, the valiant cat set off in search of help.

* * *

When Raistlin awakened to something akin to true awareness, he found himself in a strange hut with thatched roof and full of furs, being intently watched by his elder nephew, Tanin.

"Welcome to the land of consciousness," said the young man, his tone tired and strained.

The mage would have replied ─or at least tried to─, but a dirty-black ball of fur hurled itself upon him, raining wet licks on his face. That was when he realised that something avoided the raspy tongue of the little beast to slobber his skin. He stroked the cat's head with a dressed hand, gently moving the animal away from him, although that gesture pained him. Achingly, he raised the furs that covered his prone body, only to discover that he had been bandaged _completely_.

He now looked like an elf king's corpse that his subjects had spitefully but fastidiously prepared to withstand the ravages of time so that it remained as a curio for nosy tomb raiders to find.

"What happened?" he managed to croak to the warrior, who studied the scene cautiously. "Where am I?"

"In Que-Shu," Tanin replied. "It seems that you were ambushed by highwaymen and a dragon. You managed to defeat them all, but the beast hurt you badly even as you brought it down. The battle must have been epic," he whispered in awe.

Epic indeed, Raistlin sneered inwardly. How heroic could be beating a podgy, midget dragon, one newly draconised, on top of that?

"You were severely injured, but your familiar went looking for help," continued Tanin, pointing to Salvador, which had coiled itself on a ball and now purred leaning on his pet's leg. With his single yellow eye wide open. The young man had witnessed first-hand the overprotectiveness of the animal; Riverwind's badly scratched face was evidence of it. "It stole Riverwind's flute and made him follow it towards the place you lay. Clever beast, your cat."

No doubt, hunger sharpened Salvador's wits, thought the wizard, never ceasing in his soft caresses. The little glutton deserved them.

"Riverwind and his men brought you here. You weren't far off death, but a healer pulled off saving you. She treated your wounds and fed you some potent healing medicines, and you've been sleeping them off since then." Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. "A junior cleric tried her healing powers on you, but apparently her skill was not enough. That's what they all believe, although I think differently… Uncle Raistlin."

The archmage's eyes widened. At his side, Salvador hissed threatening to Tanin, who moved back a little, putting some distance between him and the spitting cat.

"How…?" It was now Raistlin's turn of narrowing his eyes. After a brief moment, he gave up; even that gesture pained him. "Did you infer my identity due the inability of the cleric to heal me?"

"Um… No, not really. I discovered it when, in your delirium, you turned gold and set the hut on fire," explained the bulky Majere sheepishly. "You were lucky I was the only one present at that moment."

And I that had hoped for him to get cleverer, sighed Raistlin inwardly. Maybe a radical diet would work on him too.

"I don't see the hut damaged in any way. And how could you see me turn golden, if there isn't an inch of my body not bandaged?"

"Your eyes, they were open. You seemed… terrified. And of course the hut doesn't seem damaged, it's a new one. The other was completely destroyed."

"Oh," was all what he said, and remained silent for a long moment. Then, "I'm not in the habit of setting fire to huts, particularly those I'm resting on."

Tanin snickered. "I suppose you don't."

"Why aren't you asking me about your brother?"

The warrior averted his eyes from his uncle's face, embarrassment brightly red on his.

"Well, you see, after you burned the hut to ashes and I discovered that you weren't Palin… I had to know, so I… took advantage of your drugged state and questioned you. You were delirious, but I got enough to know what had happened… Sorry."

Had it not hurt so much, Raistlin would have regarded his nephew in open-mouthed wonder. As things went, though, he had to settle merely with wonder. So, Tanin did not need the diet after all, there was a sharp brain under that mop of auburn hair. The mage would have been extremely proud if the target of this sudden shrewdness had not been him.

"I didn't manage to take in what you spluttered about avenging Palin and yourself though… Do you want to take down Takhisis?"

"Not exactly. It's a too long story, and a very depressive one."

"Well, it sounded as if Palin was very unhappy."

"And he was, I guess. At least I was, living as him."

"I suppose it's because you both felt pressured by society. But things have changed since your youth, Uncle, now being what you are is fashionable in some parts of Ansalon. Take Palanthas for example, despite the Knights. And our family is very open-minded; how could not we be, having you as our first?

Now being a mage was fashionable? Wonders never ceased.

"I never cared what society or its individual thought of me," Raistlin said haughtily.

"Then, why did you lock yourself in that dreary magical tower, isolating yourself?" countered Tanin. "You say you didn't care, but you hid from society. What do you fear more, Uncle, the others or yourself? You were a coward, not facing up your fears."

"I did not need anyone! I wanted to be alone, to grow by myself!" thundered the wizard. He regretted it at once as his chest ached awfully. Suppressing a groan, he sunk again among the furs. Weariness and drowsiness made him feel light-headed, and the image of his nephew blurred in his half-closed eyes.

"Well, sorry, maybe 'coward' was a too strong word for that," replied Tanin, conciliatory. The young man noticed his elder was almost asleep.

"But I still think that you'd been happier if you'd come out of the closet."

* * *

Raistlin's misadventures would have been cut short by Goldmoon's return from a clerical conference were not for Salvador's mischievous cleverness. As the Chosen of Mishakal was about to enter the sick mage's hut, the cat darted between her legs, unbalancing her and making her to fall onto her own head. Therefore, she had to stay in bed, head almost cracked, and very upset.

And thus our hero escaped from death by staffing. Goldmoon would have not denounced him to the Conclave, oh no, she would have not even said a word about his identity to the tribe or her husband, at least not until she had finished with him. The cleric remembered acutely the day Raistlin had provided her with dye for her hair that left it pink and lushless! The insolence! And only because she had commented to Laurana and Tika that he was an effeminate weed. How could one be so petty? Therefore, Goldmoon would have extracted her vengeance on the defenceless wizard. Her marvellous hair was sacred!

The archmage's troubles were far from finished though. Just a week after his return to consciousness, Sturm arrived to the village of Que-Shu with a wagon to carry his little brother back to Solace… and with his father on tow.

The elder Majere, mad with joy, nearly crushed his twin's newly healed bones, as well as the few ones he had managed to keep intact, with his too effusive hug. Then, got ready to give his brother a spanking for being such a naughty boy.

That day Caramon learned to fear cats. Very much.

It turned out that Salvador set itself as Raistlin's ferocious protector once again. He would not allow the two-legs to hurt his pet anymore. He had a responsibility towards the poor cub, and he was ready and willing to keep it. Upon their return to Solace, the cat never wavered from his duty, frightening off Caramon, eating Tika's culinary tortures, and chasing away the shrieking sisters.

Raistlin loved him dearly for it.

One morning, a familiar face leant in to look at him through the open window as its owner knocked on the wooden frame. "How are you?"

"Mirinda," the archmage marvelled from his bed. "I thought I'd never see you again after… you know. I'm as fine as I might be under the circumstances; aching, but I prefer that to the numbing stupor of the drugs."

The young woman shrugged, smiling warmly, and lifted a basket. "May I come in? I've brought you some lemonade and sweets, if you want them."

The wizard felt his face burn with shame. "Oh, please, yes, come in. And yes, I want them. I'm sorry about when I nearly vomited on you, but it had nothing to do with you giving me sweets. I was already feeling ill and…" What was he doing apologizing to a girl that had fallen in love with a fake that wrote crappy love letters?

"Never mind," the lass cut him short. A doubtful expression crossed her features. "Um… It is safe?"

"Safe? Oh, yes, of course it is. You mean what old Albertus has been saying, don't you? Don't worry, the curse only affects my parents and my sisters; it's perfectly safe for anyone else." Not content with resting in quiet and peace –a peace won viciously by his dear cat–, Raistlin had decided to get some revenge, and amuse himself while he was at it, so he had cast a nasty curse on them. The archmage smirked as he remembered the distress of the Majere parents and daughters at discovering that everything they uttered was the truth and only the truth. It had been enormously entertaining to witness, for instance, as Caramon confessed he had bedded the wives of most of his clients in his younger days. Tika, for her part, was on the verge of hysteria since whatever she tried to say to her younger son ended in 'not like Raistlin'. Delicious really, to hear her choke on his name. As it had been Dezra admitting she had sold fake love letters by Palin to half the town's young women, or that she had visited the disreputable 'Trough' to fleece the simpletons that thought that a girl would be an easy prey. Most humorous. And Laura confessing she just wanted to be a mediocre barmaid and hated Palin because she reminded her she belonged to a family of heroes. How derisible!

Of course, the Majeres had tried to hush it up swiftly, but the rumour mill was already working overtime. Even though it was discovered they were affected by a curse ─too powerful for the injured "Palin" to lift─, the admissions had a nasty ring of truth that did not escape notice. The coup de grace was dealt when the distraught Heroes had turned to Revered Daughter Albertus, the quack cleric of Solace. The old priest had told they were under a divine curse and, before they could be free from it, they should atone for their sins. Raistlin thought the cleric was a fraud that had devised that drivel only to cover he was not able to remove it, but had laughed until his sides ached, and a little more when the towners had pointed to the Majeres and called them 'gods-cursed'.

Her fears allayed, Mirinda hoisted herself through the window and took the chair by his desk to sit down at his side. "Sorry about that, but I just don't want to pass your father."

"And why would that be?" he asked, accepting the cup of lemonade she offered him.

Her smile wavered and a shadow crossed her features. She was pretty, but not the beauty her mother had been, even if there were several similarities. However, Raistlin had tried so hard to erase Miranda from his memory that it was no wonder he had not spotted them before.

"Well, my mother and I talked about… what happened. She says you look like your uncle so much that she couldn't help but remember the past… and wonder about what had been and hadn't. And reconsider what she thought she knew."

"You've come to speak about it."

"If you wish. I now know that you don't… don't love me, but I need to… I need a closure. And my mother too, although she thinks it's too late for her; the one she should be talking to is no more. Has not been for a long time."

"Uncle Raistlin?" Mirinda nodded gravely. "The tomb… The dead baby bearing his name."

"The one that would have been my older half-brother," he young woman whispered. "And yours."

Since he had been expecting something along these lines, he did not splutter his lemonade. After all, it had been one of the possibilities, despite the surname of the deceased child. "Would you care to explain?"

"Um… yes. It seems that both my mother and I have fallen into the same trap –your Father's." The young woman looked directly to his eyes, her jaw set in defiance. When Raistlin's nod made clear that no outraged denial was forthcoming, she continued, "My mother told me that, many years ago, she fell in love with a young man. An apprentice of mage," she said.

"Uncle Raistlin?" What? In love with him? That was not true! What kind of idiot did they think Palin was? His features hardened. "I find that hard to believe," he hissed. "I know… My father told me your mother broke his heart!" Not that he would have allowed Caramon to learn that he had been enamoured of his prize conquest, he would have eaten his spellbook first, but he had to explain how Palin possessed his bitter knowledge.

"How dares he!" growled the girl, indignant and scandalized. "Your father is a… a… nasty man!" Nasty? No, Caramon was loutish, stupid, bothersome, smothering, idiotic… But nasty? "Please, allow me to tell my story and then you can protest all you want, right?"

The convalescent wizard nodded, his curiosity piqued.

"My mother was the youngest daughter of the clothier of Solace, one of the richer men in town, and many considered her very beautiful. At the time, everybody thought your father the most handsome, good-natured man of the region, hard working and honest, and many girls were in love with him. However, my mother didn't like him as much as most of them. He was good-looking and strong, that's right, but he also was an ignorant man. She liked his mysterious twin better. He was not robust or gregarious like his brother; nevertheless, he possessed a sharp intelligence and was probably the most knowledgeable man of Solace, more than even that would-be knight Brightblade."

Of course he had been the most knowledgeable man of Solace; that had not been a very hard feat considering that the town was a hole of ignorant louts. And Brightblade, he had been educated merely because that Solamnic-obsessed mother of his had drilled into his hard skull that a future Knight had not to be on a level with the yokels that did not know how to read or to count.

"According to my mother, your uncle was not unsightly, only physically frail and very reserved. However, under the big shadow of his twin, he usually seemed small and homely, at least to the majority."

It was a surprise, to confirm that someone else had realised that _little_ fact. He had lived up to well into his young adulthood believing he was an afterthought, a mere counterpoint to extol his twin, and he had worked very hard to convince himself and others of the opposite. To hear such a different viewpoint of himself –used to derision and pity– was… refreshing. Boggling but refreshing.

If it were true.

With a sheepish smile, Mirinda carried on with her story, "I can understand why she felt that way. She liked serious, quiet young men, not boisterous tall boys, as I do as well. However, she told me she really noticed him when he saved her sister's baby son. She tried to talk to him, but he was elusive. One day she managed though; he was so sweet and shy, and he seemed to like her too."

The Palin look-alike remembered that episode. It had been extremely awkward, and he had felt very tongue-tied and embarrassed by his clumsiness, not sweet at all. He had never known how to act around women, and never had been the object of their attentions before.

"She fell in love with him. But then…" she hesitated.

"Then what?" Was it true that Miranda had had strong feelings of affection for him? He would not have known at the moment, since he had been blinded by his infatuation. What would she want to achieve lying to her daughter on such a long-past matter?

"Your father appeared."

"My father?" Oh, of course, the swine had won the prize with his charming stupidity and good looks. Nothing new under the sky, my friend.

The archmage felt anger and jealousy once again churn within with an intensity that astounded him. Why should he care now? Maybe because past and present were linked and what both had in common was his twin? But how?

"So your mother then fell in love with my father," he stated, coldly, just about to spat it.

"Never," Mirinda answered, a fierceness that astounded the wizard filling her voice. It had also grown cold as well. "Your father had noticed my mother's feelings towards his twin and he told her that Raistlin was acting coy with her to preserve his reputation–" _What_ reputation, for Gods' sake? "–that he would never, ever, love her back because… because… he was, you know, attracted to members of his same gender."

So Caramon had been spreading those pernicious lies _even then_. No wonder any woman had looked kindly at him, no wonder their titters, their pointing, their muttering. And he had believed it had been due to his cantankerousness and wizardry!

"And he said the same about me to you," he whispered, quiet veiling the venom in the words.

Mirinda nodded. "You're not, are you? I'm sorry I believed him so readily, but you must understand, your father is Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance, a role model in kindness and integrity. And why would he tell such a monstrous lie about his brother and his son?"

"Yes, why," he said absently. He had a nasty suspicion, but it could perfectly be born of his over-imaginative mind.

"My mother had tried to warn me against you; she had heard some rumours around town about you being gay, but after I explained her the one to actually tell me was your father, she became suspicious…"

"Well, history repeating itself so similarly is, indeed, suspicious," the mage snorted.

"Yes. So we did some inquiries and discovered that the origin of all the rumours was–"

"My father," he sighed.

"My mother is devastated. Not only did she drop the man she truly loved, but allowed herself to be tricked into believing that the closer she would get to your uncle was through your father. She intended to carry off her shame, but when we learnt the truth, she told me for me to never fall for such a liar."

The mage's mind reeled. Was Caramon they were truly talking about? His twin brother? The simpleton that had his heart written over his face? Maybe it was right, and the disturbing changes in behaviour –something similar to a brute shrewdness– he had detected in the time he had been suffering as Palin had not been changes at all. Maybe they had been there all the time, hidden from even his sharp eyes. Or not so hidden after all. Immersed in his own troubles, he had really never paid attention to Caramon; he had always tried to ignore him, to erase his annoying presence from his mind. He had never deigned himself to believe his twin possessed an ounce of intelligence; he always had underestimated him. Had he really looked at his brother instead of trying to boost his tattered ego belittling the lout, he might have detected that Caramon was cleverer than anyone thought.

Mirinda's –Miranda's– story had rendered the mage mute. Shaking in rage and outrage, he found his heart beating furiously, painfully in his chest, and that it was hard to breathe with ease. It was not the annihilation of his dreams of youth as much as the unbelievable, petty betrayal. He had been denied the chance of loving and being loved because of… what? Caramon had always had at his disposal legions of drooling women willing to bed and feed him. Why taking away the ones that showed any interest in him too? Why would he not be allowed to decide for himself if wanted to accept, or even to reject, that chance?

"The boy, your brother –our brother…" Raistlin whispered hoarsely when his voice came back to him. "Why did she not demand him to marry her?"

The girl's smile was as twisted as one of his best. "Someone had rumours going round that my mother had bedded half of Solace men –you can guess who now–, so no one would've believed her. Besides, she didn't think he would have been a good parent; he was obsessed with his brother and would've refused to part with him. My mother would've to live in the same house as Raistlin, knowing he only felt contempt for her. That attitude reinforced the falsehoods your father had told her, but now we suppose he deceived your uncle as well." Oh, how to explain that what he had suffered had been far worse than any deception? "She wouldn't have borne it. Moreover, she was already engaged to _my_ father. I suspect he knew about the baby not being his, but, sweet man he is, he never said anything."

"But the middle name…"

The young woman shrugged. "Despite what she had been told, and Raistlin's attitude, she was still in love with him. Everyone in Solace, my father and my mother included, thought that he was gay, so he couldn't be the father, and a little whim such as that could do not harm. Probably, no one would've ever known."

"Oh."

Smiling brightly, she stood up. "Well, now I'm finished with what I came here to do. Thank you, I feel much better and I'm sure my mother will too when I tell her. When you eat the buns and are in better health, please bring us the basket or have it sent to the mill if you don't want to."

"But you said you wanted a closure…"

"And I have it." The smile wavered a bit, but remained. "Even though you aren't gay, you don't love me. The shock your father dealt lifted the blindness that had settled over me. I may be a bit silly, but I'm not stupid. You love your magic, your books, and that staff that you keep at your side. I should've seen this before, but you know…" She shrugged. "I wish you find someone that truly loves you back, no matter whether male or female," she laughed, kissing him on the cheek.

The stunned mage watched as the girl clambered to the windowsill. Before disappearing into the midday of Solace, she turned a final time to him.

"By the way, I'd do something to held in check those rumours that have that you're the lover of a dark elf!"

* * *

Since he had taken the trouble of cursing his relatives, in addition to amuse himself, Raistlin thought he could make the most of it to obtain several answers. Once he had calmed down and pondered about it, he realized that, opposite to the lout's usual habit, Caramon had been avoiding his younger son lately. Specifically, since everything he said was the truth. Therefore, after considering the best course of action, he resolved to be, for once, the one to lie in ambush.

That very night, under the unseen concealment of his magical ring, he shuffled quietly from his bedroom to settle in a dark corner waiting for the common room of the inn to empty. He knew that Caramon was always the last to leave, so he resolved to be patient and dozed off a bit while the late customers left for their homes or their rooms. As soon as the last of these left, he approached –shuffling a bit more, as he was in not condition of prowling– silently the unsuspecting innkeeper, coming to stand behind the big man. After a last malicious state, the wizard schooled his features into the bland expression that had become like a second nature to him since he had been brought to this godsdamned town, and took off the ring from his finger, hiding it immediately afterwards.

"Goodnight, Father," he said softly. Inside, he cackled with malevolent glee at seeing the former warrior nearly jump out of his skin.

Caramon did not seem pleased to see him; in fact, he paled a bit under that tan he sported. "Um, Palin. You've startled me. What are you doing here, stalking me like a thief at this late hour? You should be in bed."

The archmage smiled his best gentle smile, one that made his twin frown. "Maybe, but I wanted to talk to you in private. Don't you want us to talk, Father? I know for sure you've wanted for some time, so let's now."

"No, I don't want to speak with you now, son." Well, well, well, mighty Caramon, Hero of the Lance, seemed afraid. Was that sweat on his brow? Yes, it was.

"But we must, Father, because today I had a visitor that told me very interesting things."

The lout's eyes darted through the common room in search of a saviour, although none was at hand. "Couldn't we leave it for another day, you must be fatigued…"

"It doesn't matter, Father. Why don't you want to speak to me now?" he asked sweetly.

The big man seemed to struggle with words that wanted to be pronounced against his will.

"Because I don't want you to know," he muttered between clenched teeth. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I _want_ to know, isn't it obvious? You've been doing bad things behind my back, Father, and it hurts me. As I said…"

"It's because of those girls, isn't it?" Caramon growled. "I did it for your own sake, scaring them off you."

"What girls?" Had Mirinda had any rival?

"Miranda and that daughter of hers, whatever her name is. They aren't good for you; they'd try to hook you, to snare you into marrying them, as your mother did with me."

The archmage in white regarded blankly at his twin, too baffled to assimilate the information with his usual speed. He blinked. Twice. "What? Did you say Mir_a_nda? What in the Abyss has she got to do with this? Isn't she Mir_i_nda's mother?"

"Don't you see they both are alike?" Caramon cried. "She wanted to take you from me, and the girl's intentions were just the same! I wouldn't allow it!"

This was insane. Was the idiot mixing up past and present? A sudden feeling of dread assailed him, although he managed to stave it off. He would not allow his twin's idiocy to unsettle him.

"What are you talking about, Father? I didn't meet mistress Threal until several weeks ago, and she is a married woman, not a girl. And she hasn't any ill intention towards me." At least not that he suspected of.

"I mean _before_, you daft boy!" said the big man nearly screeching, his hands on his hair. "As brilliant as you are, how can you remain so blind to your true self? I've seen you fight against it, hide it, but I know what you really are. _Who_ you are." He calmed down to stare into Raistlin's eyes. "I knew you'll come to me again, to your place next to me. I won't allow you to leave me again to get yourself killed on a silly quest for something not for you. I'll keep you safe here with your family, cared for, loved, and free from your own foolishness."

For a brief instant, Raistlin thought he had been discovered, but then the truth –much uglier than any masquerade of his– hit him.

Caramon Majere was completely off his rocker! Barking mad! Bonkers! The crazed innkeeper thought that, somehow, his son and twin brother were the _same_ person. He had not wanted Palin to be _like_ him, he wanted the unhappy youth to _be_ him! So obsessed was the man with him? Was it possible that his twin was even weaker of mind then he had thought previously, that the severing of their brotherly –and unwanted– bonds had broken a mirage of sanity? But no, the lies had been before that, before Raistlin –sick of being smothered to death, resentful of being burdened by his brother in his quest for power– cast adrift his twin and bothersome friends.

Even in their young days, Caramon had purposely deceived him and others, presumably to keep his brother at his side. The later part was not new, the archmage thought bitterly. In his need to feel useful, the former warrior had always believed that his physically weaker twin depended on him, had tried to _make_ the younger brother feel he depended on him. But now that Raistlin knew that maybe the older Majere's kind nature was not as upright as everyone –including himself– believed. He was not sure whether that had been the only reason, or the _true_ reason at all, for tying down the mage.

Now it was the chance of knowing.

"Fa-father, what are you insinuating? You seem to imply that I am… that I am…" His bewildered voice and expression hid the resentment he felt for the man. He would not please his brother "proving" that he was "right", that his son was indeed his twin, as brief as the pleasure would be, since Raistlin would kill him immediately in the most painful, gruesome way he managed to concoct. No, for Caramon Majere there would be only sweet, befuddled Palin.

"I know you're confused. Discovering that you're really another person that lived long ago must not be easy for you, but you're with your family, with me. We'll help you." The Majere patriarch smiled warmly, coming close to rest his hands on Raistlin's shoulders. However, he withdrew them when the younger man winced, apparently in pain, but in truth in revulsion. "Um. Maybe you should sit down. Here, take a seat."

"Are you implying I'm the reincarnation of uncle Raistlin?" he murmured, studying his brother's visage out of the corner of his eye.

"Reincarnation! Yes, that's the word! See? You _know_ it!" The wizard decided not to play too obtuse remarking that of course he knew the word. "Now you're not only my twin, but my son too. How much closer we could become?" Oh, gods above, as if being his brother was not bad enough… The pensive frown on the big man's brow did not bode well. "What are you to me then? My twin son instead of my twin brother?" Your twin murderer, if it were down to me, Raistlin thought savagely.

The archmage struggled to keep all sarcasm off his voice. "Let's say that I momentarily accept that _theory_ of yours." Then tried to sound firm instead of spiteful. "Would that mean that you also told girls that I was, um, gay then? Why? It's not true!"

"You can't understand, my brother… eh, son… uh, well…" According to his pained facial contortions, Caramon was not only fighting with his term of address, but with the compulsion born of the curse as well. "That girl that brought you sweets, she is a pretty one, but she is probably like her mother, a tart. She wanted to snatch you, that bitch, back when we were young, and you fell for her charms. I couldn't let her have you, so I showed you what she really was like, nothing more than an easy girl. She'd hurt you, my dear. Without any doubt, her daughter is the same. I had to protect you from them!"

"You showed…?" So everything had been a set-up for him to witness how Caramon took Miranda away from him, the bastard. He feigned shock. Better that than wrath. "Do you think that Mirinda and her mother are… what you've said? No, of course you do. Anyway, it should have been _my_ mistake, if really so. I'm not a child anymore and you took my choice away…"

The big innkeeper closed tightly his eyes, struggling to remain silent. "Always blabbering about choices and freedom and all that foolishness. No, you were weak and childish, as much as you are currently, and because of it, I was, and am, forced to decide for you. You wouldn't have ever suspected those girls didn't really want you until it'd be too late. How would they want such a skinny, scrubby, and bad-tempered brat like you? They just wanted to use you, to reach _me _through you. It's me who they all want, you know. That would've wounded you badly, my poor, misguided brother and son. No one wanted you honestly, but me. That's the reason I had to keep them all from you. And now it's the same all over again."

Raistlin gripped the counter to stop himself from attacking bodily his insane brother, then to steady himself against the mad laughter that threatened to burst from within. He, the master manipulator, had been deceived all his life by that brutish ignoramus! Everything had been a lie orchestrated by a selfish, uncaring man regarded by most of the world as the model of the gentle hero. And he had never suspected that his brother, the same bumpkin that was so awkward with mere additions, had pulled his strings expertly until he had been able to escape from his cruel grasp.

"Do you think no one would have really wanted me?" he asked, his voice almost gone.

Caramon blinked. "Of course not. Why would they, having me?"

Then, a sudden spark of understanding, so bright, so obvious that left the wizard momentarily dazed. "Would they have had you, if not for me?"

The brute's confusion turned immediately to stark dread. "I… I… You've always needed me…"

Unrelenting, gloating over the painful, bitter victory, Raistlin pushed. "Would they have?"

"I… I don't…" the older twin looked the very picture of agony. "You always made me look better, seem better… I couldn't risk…"

The archmage reminded himself that he was now Palin; his viciousness had to be gentle. "You considered your brother to be your foil. You needed him to be it, to show the rest how bad he was and how good you were. Without him you would be like the rest, wouldn't you?" Then the coup de grace: "He would be so disappointed…"

Caramon's half-contained tears were a sweet balm for his miserable soul. At last the whole truth had been brought to light, and he could feel a little vindicated.

"I'm so sorry you're disappointed," the innkeeper moaned. "But I'll make up for…"

"Yes, I am so very disappointed, Father," he said softly, unsheathing a new dagger of cruelty to dig into his twin's heart with delight. "But I'm sure uncle Raistlin would have been even more. And very, very angry."

The former warrior looked up at him, confusion dulling his tearful eyes. "But you said… you accepted…"

"No, I said I considered your _theory_," the mage explained patiently, knowing that gentleness would be much more hurtful than any of his sarcasm. "I am Palin, Father, not Raistlin. We are two different persons."

The middle-aged man leaped from his chair to land close before his wizard brother with such force that the latter nearly fell off his own.

"No! I've seen it! You're Raistlin!" he shrieked, stretching out his hand to grab the smaller twin.

"Leave my baby alone, you mad moron!" cried a new, shrill voice. Tika stormed in to stand in the way of both men. "He is not… Raistlin! Aaaaargh! I don't want that name pronounced in my home!"

"He is!"

"He is not!"

The archmage slid off the chair and into a dark corner of the common room, just in case the former barmaid got into her head to "protect" her son with her own body.

"Yes, he is and you've know all along! You knew as well as I do that he'd come back sooner or later, that's why you stubbornly feed him to bloat him into making him unrecognizable and why you watch Raistlin's Room!"

"Don't say that name!"

"I'll do if I want" But he did not. "You've always hated my baby twin, but you agreed to take him when he'd come back. Remember that was my requirement to marry you?"

Even though he did not suffer being termed "baby" every now and then, he decided witnessing how the Majeres threw down the gutter their marriage at the top of their voices was worth it.

"I told you I accepted it because it was the only way to marry you," the woman spat. "Not that I thought that ungrateful wretch would come back, but if he had–" Here her pretty face twisted into a horrible mask of cunning spite. "–I'd have taken care of him. He'd never noticed the arsenic in that stinking tea of his."

My, my, my. And he had thought that Tika, in her younger years, always had looked as if butter would not melt in her mouth! Some heroes they were, this pair!

"You wouldn't have dared to poison my baby brother!"

"As if that piece of shit were worth the air he breathed! The world would've been a much better place if that horrible man had never been born!"

Raistlin tried to take offence at her words, but much worse things had been spat to his face, so he was somewhat immunised against them. That, however, did not prevent Tika's fast climb towards the top positions in the Black List.

"Why do you hate him so?" Caramon cried. As if he really ever cared that someone detested his brother; quite the opposite, spurring hate on would ensure he looked the saviour ready to rescue his 'poor brother.' Maybe it was Tika's new murderous facet what worried him. No Raistlin, no one to save, after all.

Anyway, the archmage also wondered about the source of the woman's fervent detestation. During the war, he had been nasty and annoying towards her, but no more than with the other Companions –as it had been his habit. At first, he had been mildly impressed by her bravery, yet he soon discovered it was not courage at all, but a desire to impress Caramon and to get him. That very moment, any scrap of admiration he had felt disappeared. He had supposed she hated him because of what he had "done" to Caramon when they had gone back into the past, but he thought her current vindictiveness went well beyond the limits of spite to tread on monomania. He was dead or suffering never-ending torments at Takhisis' claws –at least that was what everyone thought– so he was not a threat to his husband anymore. It was not as if Palin would become his uncle the instant he looked like him. But then, if the lout thought his son was his twin…

"Why you ask?" she hissed, fury and hate and also a spark of madness in her green eyes. "When he was present there was nothing else to you! Even when you were with me, you always thought of him, always watched him!"

"I had to be sure no one was to take him away from me! I didn't trust Laurana or Goldmoon…" The Qualinesti Princess or the Que-Shu Chieftain mooning after him? The world was coming to an end. Ridiculous was not enough to term the thought.

"But they _despised_ him!" Tika countered, her tone conveying it was a feeling she shared with her female friends.

"But Tas didn't!" Stunned silence. "Oh, don't deny that Tas' continuous finding my baby brother's components was a way to have him to come to regain them back, so the kender could flirt with him. And I'm sure my poor twin was falling for him…"

Eeeeewww! Him falling for _Tas_? Because he did not kill him for being a kender? Or Tas having a thing for him? My, now "borrowing" was a kind of flirtation… Caramon had a very disturbed mind.

"Leave Tas out of this. Was that the reason you kept stepping on his feet? The kender didn't feel anything save perhaps curiosity towards that effeminate freak–" Raistlin _did_ take offence this time. "–but what I truly think is that he… he… he charmed _you_ into loving him!"

The mental image of him and Tas had been preposterous, but the one with him and Caramon was really, truly gruesome. The wizard shuddered, holding back the nauseating feeling of sickness.

Tika went on spewing insanities: "Since no one loved the wretch and he was useless at it, he wanted you to be as miserable as he was! He was so jealous that I loved you that he tried to keep us apart with his spells!"

Ah, the marvels of lunacy.

Raistlin would have loved for her to spirit Caramon away forevermore; that would have saved all of them many a problem. Maybe then Tas would have gathered courage enough to ask for his hand and they both would have been free to elope in the night towards Kendermore, where they would have lived happily, magically thieving their neighbours. But, oh, it was not to be… Luckily.

Some of the lodgers had come in to look at the screaming pair, watching them open-mouthed from the doorway but not brave enough to enter the common room or interrupt the argument. The wizard also supposed they were more interested in witnessing how the two of them washed their dirty linen in public than in sleeping. He felt sorry for the two Majere brothers, who seemed shocked at hearing such unpleasant things, but it was about time they learnt about their parents' nastiness.

With a jaw-splitting yawn, the mage shuffled towards the doorway, making way for himself through the small crowd. He shrugged sheepishly as he passed Tanin, patting softly his back, and then went to his room; he was tired and the raging dispute did not add anything to what he already knew, so he preferred to spend the rest of the night there, isolated from their yells by a nice silence spell. All in all, he thought, Caramon and Tika deserve each other.

Tomorrow would be a great day.

Next: A fateful reunion, a jealous feline and two misunderstanding knights!


	7. Abyssal Discoveries

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

Interlude: Abyssal discoveries.

"But I've never abused of any child," Par-Salian was complaining again. In spite of his constant wailing, he had managed to earn a position as garbage collector; in fact, his bosses thought his lamenting added flavour to the Pits of the Damned. "You must believe me, Ari."

His new best buddy, Ariakas, had been granted a privileged position among the Dark Queen's employees upon his death, but he had ruined it all leading the Abyssal Trade Union to demand a raise of wages and better working conditions. For his treachery, Takhisis had him transferred to Hiddukel's realm, and now there he was, picking up demon poo together with the dirty-robed loon. The former Emperor of Ansalon was not very friendly to most of his new workmates ─he thought himself well above them─, but he felt an affinity for the old man who had died at the hands of his own co-murderer.

"Maybe you should speak with Dracos about it. It's unusual for a report to be wrong, and I don't think you will be able to do anything to change that even if it is, but at least you can ask him the details," Ariakas suggested. "We can go to his office at Devil's Gore."

After another humiliating working 'day' of shovelling around shit and worse things, the two condemned souls ─one because he was the interested, the other because he so bored that even the prospect of put up with red tape seemed thrilling─ found themselves querying Galan Dracos about Par-Salian's report.

The soul worker was helpful in an amused but exasperated way. "Ssso you insssissst on your innocccence regarding the charge of child abussse."

"That's right; I've never had any questionable behaviour toward any child. I avoided them like the plague."

The short, scaly man took the corresponding dossier from his bursting filing cabinet and took a quick look, seeking the right page. "Let'sss sssee. It would be much easssier if our filesss were computerisssed like thossse of Missshakal'sss or Ssshinare'sss headquartersss…"

"That was one of my demands," Ariakas interfered. "But no, _they _prefer to get cooking utensils or industrial amounts of cheap booze over improving the situation of us foot-workers."

"Pleassse, don't ssspeak about thossse thingsss in here. I don't want my licccenccce taken away," warned the soul worker.

"All right, all right, mate," said the ex-tyrant with a pacifying gesture. "Have you found anything yet?"

"Here it isss. Mmm… Yesss, it sssaysss that you abusssed of one minor, by the name of Raistlin Majere. That'sss a ssseriousss offenccce even here, my friend."

"What! But he was of age the first time I even laid eyes upon him!" protested the former Head of the Conclave. Of course, he took great care of not revealing that his initial intentions had been make him pass his Test when he was merely sixteen; he had been so eager to forge the Sword! However, he had known that his friend Antimodes would not have allowed it; he had been angry with Par-Salian for calling the youngster at twenty-one as it was. The uproar about the false clerics and the Judith renegade in that poky old town Haven had been a marvellous strike of luck and the perfect excuse to summon Raistlin to Wayreth.

"I hope you molested him thoroughly," Ariakas leered. To Galan, he addressed a haughty half-smile and a raised eyebrow. "What? The little shite helped that half-elven bastard Tanis to murder me! And then he went to my faithful although chaotic dragon and beat the crap out of him with his staff 'til the poor beast was killed!"

Par-Salian pretended he had not heard that last part. "But that's all wrong. I didn't molest or abuse him; I just did what required of me, and he was an adult."

Huma's contemporary sighed, then shrugged.

"I'll sssee what it can be done about thisss. Don't hold your breath though, thisss sssort of thingsss worksss very, very ssslowly without fail. You know, paperwork, bureaucracy, and the underworld don't mixxx well. Maybe you ssshould turn to a lawyer, thisss realm isss infesssted with them. However, I doubt you'll be able to afford hiring one, with thossse almossst non-exxxistent wagesss you earn. Perhapsss a ssstudent then? Mmmm… Yesss, yesss, that would be the bessst sssolution."

"I know of one that will do. He isss ssspecializing in penal law in hisss ssspare time. I can sssummon him right now if you wisssh me to."

"That would be nice," Par-Salian replied.

At Galan's request, a damned soul like them came, one Beldyn.

Beldyn was a scarecrow of a man, skinny and jerky. His eyes usually darted around, taking everything in an almost frightened manner, and his laugh was shaky. He was fearful of open spaces, so Galan had devised for him a contraption that covered his head with several ribs mounted on a shaft and with a canvas tensed over them. The resourceful soul worker tied up the shaft to Beldyn's back with trappings. That way the former Kingpriest of Istar was able to toil in Takhisis' realm without his fear of gigantic fiery mountains falling on his head paralysing him.

After assuring him that the old man was not the avatar of Paladine in disguise, the ex-renegade explained to the fallen priest Par-Salian's dilemma, then shooed the three of them out of his office adducing a new damned client was to arrive at any moment.

"I've heard about you in the school," said the timid genocider. "They all say only a madman would accept your case ever, but I don't think so."

The two garbage collectors looked at each other, both of them doubtful.

"You have been wronged by the gods of Good, just like I was. You did your duty towards them, and they have rewarded your faithfulness and application with a damned afterlife. Since we are kindred spirits, I'll charge you nothing for my services."

"That's very nice on your part, Beldyn. Thank you."

"Not at all! I began to study law in order to be able to cleanse my name and make them withdraw the charges of genocide and all the other crap. Then, they will be forced to accept me at my rightful place at Paladine's right hand."

The White Robe kept quiet about his doubts on how the lawyer wannabe would manage to erase the immense hatred the Platinum Dragon must feel for him; after all, the wise god had thrown a _mountain _onto him. In addition, Paladine's right hand was _his _place. Nevertheless, he smiled to his spasmodic soon-to-be defendant.

* * *

Some no-time later, Beldyn came to find them when they were at work. The fitful soon-to-be lawyer had intended to wait patiently for them to finish their pointless cleaning, but since the working day was so 'flexible' in a place where time never passed, he got bored, frightened, and a little nauseated at the sickening stench that emanated from the pits where his client and his friend laboured.

"Uh, Mr. Salian," he shouted, and immediately cringed, since he knew that raising one's voice could attract undue attention. "Could you meet me up here please? I have some information of relevance."

A few no-moments after, he could hear as the old wizard struggled to climb up the pit at the bottom of which had been working. A pair of bony hands appeared at the edge of the hole, clawing the muddy, foul ground, and slipping. Beldyn would have helped, but he could not be sure the hands belonged to his client ─even if they _seemed _so─ and they were incredibly dirty and stinking, so he thought he might catch something if he touched them, never getting he was already dead and that 'something' could not possibly affect him.

"Coming!" said a feeble voice from the bottom of the pit. No one came though.

"Please, I've been told there is volcanic activity in this area," he fretted.

"Yes. I mean don't worry, I'll be with you just in a moment!" The old man seemed to be arguing with someone down there.

After a moment that might have been a lifetime or two, the old magician was thrown bodily from within the hole, landing messily near the edge. Even before he stood up, the thwarted Emperor of Ansalon climbed up the pit, dropping at Par-Salian's feet two shovels and two buckets.

The last Kingpriest stepped back, nearly gagging at the stench. He covered his mouth and nose with his formerly magnificent vestments. "Ugh, couldn't you do something about your foul smell."

"We toil incessantly shovelling demon excrement and worse things, so _please _excuse us our malodorous states," Ariakas snorted with rage. "Perhaps you should try it..."

"Uh, excuse my furious companion, good Beldyn, but he has had an altercation with an anti-labour union demon earlier, and they have come to blows," the former Head of the White Robes explained as he tried to tidy up his defunct robes. He leaned towards his lawyer to whisper conspirationally, "The demon lost by the way, so I suggest you to not upset him."

The frightened ex-cleric nodded, then turned to the wrathful garbage collector and bowed a little. "I'm sorry. Please excuse my thoughtless words."

Ariakas grunted something Beldyn hoped was his assent. Clearing his throat, the twitchy genocider presented them the folder he kept on this case. It was very thin.

"Umh, Beldyn, what's the 'information of relevance' you talked about? There's nothing new here."

"That's just the significance of it, Mr. Salian!" the would-be petty fogger said brightly.

"What? That there's nothing new?" the old mage asked. "And it's Par-Salian, all together."

"This fraud is wasting our time," the burly ex-tyrant sneered. "I've learned of several undead in Chemosh's domain that are interested in joining the Union, let's meet them. They probably know how to do their work."

"I _know _how to do mine as well," Beldyn protested, offended and hurt at being accused of unprofessionalism. "Just allow me to explain myself and how my inquiries went."

"All right, my boy," Par-Salian said in a placating tone, forgetting that the last Kingpriest of Istar was his senior by several centuries. "Ari, let's hear what he has to say. Then we'll go to meet those undead."

The dead ruler of the world snorted, but agreed with a brisk nod.

Beldyn began his tale of woe and red tape, "At first, my investigation proceeded very slowly. I had to do my job in the Repair Brigade and the archives of the Abyss are a right mess, so it went at snail's speed, as you can imagine. There was nothing of relevance in your folders ─I have you to know that there are several of them, all of them bursting─ or your case's. Therefore, I went looking for the file on your presumed victim, Majere comma Raistlin." Both the mage and the tyrant growled in unison at hearing the hated name. "You told me he is a notorious person here in the Netherworld, so I was surprised I found nothing about him in the archives. I put it down to the chaos the files were in."

"But?" Ariakas urged on.

"Since I was unable to find anything I turned to a colleague. He seemed very interested, and helped me to search, to no avail. My colleague said this was very strange since this Raistlin character is something of an anti-celebrity here.

"Of course," the dead ruler laughed bitterly, "the bastard nearly razed the place to the ground some years ago."

Par-Salian refrained from adding he could have done a better work, and committed suicide afterwards.

Beldyn stared at Ariakas. "Oh, so he was the one that wrecked all the signposts," the ex-priest growled, feeling a very unprofessional dislike for the victim of his client filling his dead being. "Anyway, the rumour I was working on a case relating him spread like wildfire, and I was called in the presence of Her Majesty Takhisis." The fretful man's eyes widened in remembered terror. "She was… big… as big as a fiery mountain…"

"Snap out of it!" Ariakas snapped, thumping the paralysed former cleric when he seemed unable to escape from his fearful remembrances.

"Ah–yes. She was… eh… kind enough to change into her Fearsome Warrior form to speak to me. It was not as scary… er… Anyway, she said she was very interested in my case and, even though she had no time to lend a paw, she wanted to help. Therefore, she granted me a leave of absence."

"It's understandable that Takhisis wants to know the nasty truth behind this case," Par-Salian reasoned. "She would probably want to find some blackmail material regarding my case to use against Mighty Paladine." He and the ex-priest raised their hands to the murky skies in a devotional gesture, but the latter hurried to look down in fear.

"Hey, wake up, you twits. It's not _your_ case what interests the Bitch," the former conqueror snorted at the wizard, "but the prospect of getting at the traitor. Nevertheless, we can use that in our favour. Continue you tale already, pettifogger."

"Er, yes. With more timelessness in my hands, I endeavoured to find any scrap of intelligence regarding the bast... er, the victim. I searched the archives from top to bottom and moved heaven and earth. Alas, there was nothing to be found there, or in the archives of the other dark gods' realms."

"I can't believe it," Ariakas sneered.

"Excuse me, Sir Bellicose, I may be fearful of the wrath of the gods and of falling mountains, but I'm quite good at charming my way around bureaucracy, so stop scorning my work. There is _nothing _there about that Raistlin character... And there the relevance lies in."

The two garbage collectors regarded thoughtfully the would-be lawyer.

"You're right, Beldyn," Par-Salian said. His companion only condescended to grunt and nod. "There _should_ be some files on Raistlin in most of the seven archives."

"Seven?" The last Kingpriest of Istar seemed confused. "I thought there were only six."

The former chosen of Takhisis snorted. "There are _seven_ dark gods, so there must be seven archives."

"Is that so? I was never any good at theology."

The two damned workers regarded each other and sighed.

"And how did you manage to become the ruler of the Church of Paladine?" the mage asked.

"Charisma I suppose." Beldyn shrugged. "Let's see, I went to Takhisis' archive, Hiddukel's…" He began to count on his fingers. "…Sargonass', Zeboim's, Morgion's, Chemosh's… Who's the seventh I left out?"

"Bah, Nuitari," Par-Salian spat. "But it's probably not important anyway."

"Who is Nuitari?"

"The black moon. The god of dark magic," Ariakas explained.

"Is there a black moon?"

"It seems so. The Black Robes say they're the only ones they can see it, so most people think it's a myth they invented to make for not having a real godly patron."

"In any event, no one told me of another archive, and I asked about any source of information. When I exhausted every resource –except that Nuitari's– I turned to a Mishakite information point, but my search proved as fruitless as before."

"But that's not possible! There must be information about the bastard somewhere!" the scourge of the Good Folk of Ansalon grumbled.

"That's what I thought when I went to Mishakal's offices. In her archives there is a file on every being born in Krynn, and they usually keep it updated as they're computerised. However, our 'victim' didn't appear. The clerk told me that she knew that character should; the file was probably misplaced or corrupted…"

"Something smells foul here," Par-Salian said. "There's no way the little viper doesn't appear anywhere."

Ariakas regarded the stinking pits thoughtfully. "Unless they're withholding the information," he suggested.

Beldyn shrugged. "We have no way of knowing so."

"Yes, we have." The eyes of the dead tyrant shone. "Reddy, my former mount, is a hacker." Seeing the blank stares of his companions, he explained himself, "He can access those computerised files and look for what is _really_ there, instead what they want us to believe there is."

* * *

Several shit-working days (or whatever) after, the three condemned souls went to the Abyss in search of the red dragon Ariakas unoriginally had termed 'Reddy' during his ruling days. The beast was now a construction worker in the Abyss, as many of his brethren.

"Hello, Reddy," said the Emperor of Ansalon. "What's up with you, pal?"

The large dragon –so large that poor Beldyn trembled with fear, not because it was a dragon, but because it reminded the cleric of something big… like a fiery mountain– regarded his former rider with disdain. "Call me that again and kiss goodbye to your physical form. I find that term disgusting and racist."

"C'mon, Reddy. Do you prefer being called your given name? Strawb…"

"'Red' will be fine." The beast bent his long neck and took the safety helmet from his mighty head. "What do you want, Ariakas?"

"What are they building here?" Par-Salian asked the ex-tyrant, pointing a twisted structure.

"I think they're reconstructing the old Temple that collapsed in Neraka."

The dragon nodded. "You're right. That's what we do."

"Er… It seems a bit… crooked."

"Of course…" A resounding groan cut through the impure air of the Abyss. "Here we go again," the beast sighed.

Before the stunned onlookers, the temple shook, groaning voicelessly its despair, and then suddenly fell apart, filling the realm of the Dark Queen with dust and dirt. When the dense cloud of dust dispersed, there was nothing of the building but a pile of rubble and twisted bars.

"I see Takhisis is still stingy about spending her money on quality material," Ariakas commented off-handedly. "If you hadn't ditched me the moment she…"

"Don't wanna hear about it," Red growled.

"We want help in finding information about your murderer," explained Par-Salian, trying to break free from Beldyn's terrified grasp.

"That will be a pleasure."

The three men –when they managed to make the former priest come to his senses again– explained what was going on to the red dragon. He agreed that it was suspicious, to find nothing on the notorious wizard, and wasted no time in hacking his way into Mishakal's databases.

"This is very, very strange," he said. "There were files, but they were removed long time ago. No file is ever removed from the Sissy's database…"

"Can you find out who removed them?" Beldyn asked timidly.

Red shook his mighty head. "Already tried. Whoever they were, they covered their tracks carefully."

"Then what can we do now? We know someone or something has hidden or destroyed any information about Raistlin, but now we are at a dead end…" Par-Salian despaired. He wanted so much clean his good name and find some juicy dirty secret of the bugger's.

"Well, we can do the desperate search…" the beast said and typed in something. "Let's see what Goggle finds for us…"

"There are thousands of results!"

"'The course of love is seldom smooth, especially if you're Raistlin Majere. Emotions may be shared but there are still brothers to escape…' What's this rubbish?" the old mage spat with disdain and not a bit of revulsion. "'Love' and 'Raistlin' should never go together in the same sentence, unless it is to say the viper has destroyed it…"

The dragon shrugged, wrinkling its snout. "It's called 'fan fiction'. There's a bugger who calls herself or himself 'fistandstylus' that is drowning the 'net with that garbage."

"'Fan fiction'? What's that?" asked a mildly uninterested Ariakas.

"It's like you take the history of Huma and you 'rewrite' it or write some 'unknown' part of it, mainly to insert yourself as a character and beat the crap out of the 'bad/good guys'. Thanks the Gods this guy here has not a penchant for sues…"

"'Fistandstailus'…?" was murmuring Par-Salian.

"Not very subtle, isn't he?" The former oppressor smirked; he had also recognised the supposed nickname.

The old dead made a grimace of disgust. "It's the same as with 'Raistlin' and 'love' for him and 'subtle'."

Ignoring his formerly human companions, the dragon had narrowed the search, ruling out 'fics', 'pics', and things like that. The result was still overwhelming. None of them understood who anyone might be interested in the traitor. Anyway, after burning their retinas with a myriad of webpages, one more tasteless than the previous, even the resilient Ariakas was willing to call it a day. Beldyn, for his part, had given up long ago, and was now engrossed reading articles on the dangers of fanaticism that the dragon had kindly printed for him.

"I think that I cannot bear looking at another page stating the little bastard is 'cool'," the worn out ex-tyrant groaned. "I don't understand what can possess anyone to name their baby after him. I'd consider it a curse myself."

Par-Salian nodded in agreement, frowning at the smirking image of who had become his killer. "They don't even portray him right," he mumbled. Downhearted, he was to consider the search a failure when the great beast called them to take a look at the screen.

"See this! I've found something that might be of interest!" Red said brightly. "It's a database!"

"'Blacky's Fabulous and Extensive Dragonlance D&D Database'," read the old man aloud.

"Whatever have dragonlances to do with the little shite?" wondered Ariakas. His comrades shrugged.

"They seem to equal Krynn with dragonlances," the dragon explained. "I haven't the foggiest idea why. Let's see if he's in the character drop-down menu… That's it! There's a whole character sheet with extras about the pest."

The three former humans looked at the screen avidly, then paled like the corpses they had been.

Ariakas, eyes wide and fists tightly closed, turned to his friend in misery. "You are so in deep shit, Parsley…"

"More than usual, that is."


	8. Roaring Jealousy

**Flaming Summer!**

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

_Author's note: Thank you to all you reviewers, you encourage me to write on. I enjoy writing this fanfic, but knowing that there is people out there reading it and _liking_ it makes it really worth. _

_For those interested in our star cat, Salvador is going to have a relevant role in this nonsense of a story... He grows on you, that tomcat. _

_As always, thank you to Skull Bearer, my beta reader and comrade in suff... er writing. I'm sorry you don't agree with Salvador, but he has his own plans._

Chapter 7: Roaring jealousy.

Castle Uth Wistan had been decked for the occasion. It would be the first time since the foundation of the Order of Knights of Solamnia that not only one non-noble, non-Solamnic aspirant was inducted into the order, but two. For centuries, the norms and regulations had banned that kind of people ─riffraff, according to most of the traditionalists─ from joining their noble fraternity. Now, things were very different; the noble sons of Solamnia preferred a life of excesses and laziness at court to the exacting life as knights-in-training ─to reach the levels where the knights had access to true politics, the aspirants had to toil for a long time. Therefore, the ranks had been thinning for already several years, and that was the reason the two young men had been accepted. Of course, the fact that they were the sons of two Heroes of the Lance and had a letter of recommendation from Tanis Half-Elven ─honorary Knight of the Rose─ helped to cover that the order was merely desperate.

Raistlin had seen the knighting of his nephews from a high window. Mages, even White Robes, were not welcome into the order's extravagant initiation rituals. Not that the wizard wanted to be part of them; he had witnessed enough initiation ceremonies to know they all were ridiculously pompous and laughable. And so, he kept clear of the courtyard where all those moustached hackers were gathered.

It was unfortunate that the rest of the family was not able to attend, but it was all for the best. For those last weeks in Solace before setting off to Solamnia with his nephews, the wizard's relatives had been too occupied trying to maintain their mouths shut, so they could not annoy him, and Salvador took care of any of them daring to approach his pet. However, the Majere's debacle had produced a bothersome side effect: Raistlin was now considered a martyr that had suffered in silence the insanity of the two Heroes. And thus, the people of Solace wondered if they had misjudged the poor younger twin and if their casual reject and abandonment at the hands of those "heroic" nutters had not put the "poor" mage into the path of darkness. Some of them –Mirinda and her mother among them– had even created an association to restore his "good name."

As good as their intentions were, the archmage was not sure he liked the idle and belated signs of support. He had _chosen_ to be evil and was proud of his free-willed choice. To even consider the possibility that he had been driven to take it because of others –especially his brother– irked him badly. In addition, he suspected he was merely a new victim of the populace's need for celebrities; even his notoriousness was apparently preferable to the crazy wickedness of the former local heroes. Dead, silent legends were redeemable; alive, truth-spewing ones were not.

For all that, Tanin and Sturm had been the ones to suffer the brunt of their family's disgrace and disintegrating honour. They certainly had been very relieved when left for Solamnia, leaving the madness behind.

And this was why the archmage was the only Majere present at his nephews' knighting.

Wistan's speech was soporific even without actually hearing what he was blabbering. Seated on the windowsill, Raistlin dozed to the sound of the voice of the leader of the Knights. He was ready to slip into true sleep when a deep growl awakened him.

There was a big white tiger standing in front of him, looking at him with what in a human he would have considered undisguised hostility.

"Tandar! Where are you!" came a voice from the next room, a voice that nearly made Raistlin fall from the window. "Ah, here you are, bad kitty."

The wizard swallowed painfully as he regarded the woman that entered the room. He knew her to be only a few years younger than him, but apparently her god had found fitting to continue tempting the forces of Evil with her raven-haired, white-skinned beauty. Years had been more than easy on her, they had enhanced her charms. His half-remembered dreams had been but pale shadows of the real woman, he thought wistfully.

"Whom are you bothering now, Tandar?" she scolded to tiger, who hung his head sheepishly.

"He is not… er, a bother," croaked Raistlin, cursing his suddenly parched mouth. "He seems hungry though, Revered Daughter."

Crysania frowned. "Your voice is familiar…"

"I'm Palin Majere, of the White Robes," then added no more, a little afraid of the unholy gleam in her blind eyes and the all too sweet smile.

"Today your brothers are being knighted. Why are not you with them in the courtyard?" the cleric asked while she approached him, slipping a hand under his arm. "Please, help me to walk. Tandar, quit growling."

"Um, of course, Revered Daughter," he acquiesced in Palin's meek tone. So near to her that he was shrouded in her perfume, Raistlin felt at the same time blessed and cursed. Cursed because he had to get out of this jam without being discovered; blessed because he had now more first-hand material for his dirty recreational dreams.

"I remember that you usually used my title only when you wanted to mock me," the Chosen of Paladine commented offhandedly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It seems that, for once, you are sorely disinformed, my dear," she smirked, arm tightly around his. At his silence, the woman added, "My, and short of words. The world must be coming to an end."

"My lady, I don't know…"

"That would be a first, you not knowing anything, wouldn't it, _Raistlin_?" Crysania whispered into his ear. The mage's eyes widened in surprise.

At his side, the tiger growled threateningly.

"How did you know?" he murmured, ignoring the animal. The beast would not dare to attack him whilst his master was in his hands… or the other way round, it did not matter. The wizard did not like at all the jealous glare the oversized cat kept throwing at him though. It bore watching, the feline. However, he was distracted as Crysania was now caressing his face with her free hand.

"Your voice, your odour, the aura of power that surrounds you like a mantle," she said softly, her sweet fingers memorising his features.

"Really?" Raistlin asked, amazed. No one else had noticed those details, he had covered them carefully, particularly his aura.

"No," admitted Crysania with a sheepish smile. "In truth it was your weird behaviour as Palin. But of course, you couldn't know I knew him, only Revered Daughter Albertus knew."

"Did you know Palin? And what's this about 'Revered Daughter'? How can a man hold the title for a woman?"

"All the members of Mishakal's church are 'revered daughters' regardless of their gender. Goldmoon decreed it to be so." She shrugged, as if the senseless edicts of the Chosen Prophet of Mishakal were something usual and of not matter. "As for Palin, yes, I knew him; quite well indeed, since I was his therapist."

"Ah, Caramon mentioned some therapy or other, but I'd never imagined that were you the one to conduct it… You've said only Albertus knew." The archmage frowned.

"Yes. Your brother wanted Palin to receive counsel about his 'weird behaviour'. He was sent to old Albertus in Solace, but the old man soon realised that it was too much for him –in fact, he is an inept; a kind-hearted one, but inept nonetheless– and turned to me for help. I was delighted to, you nephew felt… er, looked so much like you… However, that was the main problem. Poor boy. The 'weird behaviour' Caramon alluded to was that Palin didn't act like you. According to Albertus, it seemed as if your twin wanted his son to become _you_."

Raistlin merely nodded, his wounds still too fresh.

"And then there was his mother, pulling him in the exactly opposite direction, and his sisters making his life an abyss because they were jealous of him."

"No one wanted him to be himself," Raistlin assented, full of sadness. "I didn't come to know him, but I would've liked to. I know he was not the unimpeachable man he pretended to be, no one can be, living in that madhouse. I've seen some pictures…"

"Yes, those pictures were part of the therapy, they helped him to express what he really felt. They were truly terrible. However, Palin was a good boy, but his exemplary performance was both a cover for the resentment that boiled within and a way to be contrary to his family, particularly Caramon. He seemed too afraid of his mother and preferred to assuage her paranoia instead. In addition, Palin suspected his family thought he was a homosexual and he didn't want to side with them."

"So, he was?" Maybe his nephews were not as blind as he had believed.

"Yes, he was. He told me he corresponded with a secret lover, but never revealed his identity."

"I didn't found any letter," said Raistlin frowning. That's all he needed, a mysterious boyfriend lurking who knows where!

"Palin told me they had a quarrel, something about his friend not wanting to disclose their relationship, and he burned them in a huff. It was a hard blow for the poor young man, he was so hopeful about his lover. As a matter of fact, that relationship had been what allowed him to get better, so much that, for our last session, he was ready to confront his family. He explained that Dalamar had invited his father and him to visit the Tower of High Sorcery, so he would first go there because he was looking forward to it and then he would tell Caramon to get lost. He was to leave home, to confront his lover face to face and not over letters."

Crysania's blind eyes seemed to regard thoughtfully the depressed wizard.

"Palin always regretted not being as brave and determined as his uncle, the one who had been able to abandon his crazed twin to die in the Bloodsea of Istar. He didn't approve of your despicable treatment of the rest ─his words, not mine─, but he supposed that, if your live had been even only a little similar to his, the constant torture could draw the worst of a person, however strong he was. For Palin, you were his hero and role model."

"Poor, miserable boy," Raistlin sighed, feeling very miserable himself. The fall of the Majeres had been satisfying, but any gratification he experimented at their disgrace could never erase the harm they had done.

He sensed Crysania's touch on his arm, consoling. "Sadness is drowning you. Don't let it," she said softly, her firm caress conveying her support, the fact she was there to hold him. Then, as an afterthought, "I won't charge you."

Still afflicted and hurt by the truth learned not so long ago, saddled with the knowledge that his nephew ─so like him─ had suffered the same fate, Raistlin broke down. Amid shaking sobs, clinging to Crysania, he told her the abyssal life he had led as Palin and the discovery of the sham his own life had been. Had he been alive, had he known of his nephew's suffering, of history repeating itself, he would have adopted Palin as his own, and would have pampered him without stifling him, to make of him a proper evil wizard ─or at least one able to blow to pieces annoying relatives.

Crysania comforted him with soft words and gentle hands caressing his hair. Nestled against her, she held him close, until the sobs lessened and then stopped. Then they resumed a little more as the mage snuggled against her warm bosom. Grieving he may be, but opportunistic he remained. The priestess did not seem to mind anyway.

He didn't even paid attention to Tandar's grumble.

"Oh, but you're such a prize case," she sighed.

Remembering he was supposed to be a mighty evil archmage and not a pathetic, desperate man, he stepped back to regard the Chosen of Paladine with a cool gaze. Then he remembered she could not see him and that her beastly guide was not likely to squeal, so he allowed himself to look at her wistfully despite the fact his voice sounded aloof.

"How did you become a shrink? Was bossing around the church of Paladine not enough for you?"

The woman hid a smile at his obvious intent of keeping his distance after his show of 'weakness.' "Why, Raistlin, you're to blame."

"Me? Pray tell how it came to be."

"After our… enlightening journey back in time and into the Abyss," it seemed that sarcasm was contagious, "I was at a loss about why you had not succumbed to my… er… had not seen the light of Paladine's grace," Crysania began to explain.

"I _did_ see his light," the wizard grouched in a mutter. "How could I have not? He was painfully blinding, the flasher. No wonder Takhisis cannot best him, she probably sees not a bit looking at all that floodlighting…"

The priestess elbowed him into silence with stunning accuracy taking into account that she was blind. "If I may continue my tale of woe?" she growled, peeved. "As I was saying, I didn't understand why you didn't turn to the Path of Goodness under His influence but under a lout's, so I thought something was not right in your head." Raistlin was to protest, but a well-placed foot stepping on his –who would have thought someone so delicate-looking like Crysania would weight so much?– robbed his breath from him. "Determined to understand the reasons behind your mental derangement, I studied the secrets of the human mind through a mail crash course by the Brotherhood of Majere, and spurred on by the knowledge of how much good I might have done to Krynn healing your suffering mind, I became the premier psychologist of Ansalon."

"Well, and which were the reasons?" he sneered.

The Chosen of the God of Light seemed ill-at-ease, then steeled herself. "The only logical explanation was that you were not attracted to the fair sex…"

"So I didn't fall under Paladine's sway because I was homosexual, you say?" the exasperated archmage cried, startling the cleric. "That's just brilliant! Good for the servants of Majere and their useless crash courses!"

"Don't be nasty! Your lack of interest on me prevented the God from reaching out to you through me…" countered the woman.

"Lack of interest! How could you not notice my… my… _rampant_ interest!"

"You call 'rampant' to act interested one moment and disgusted the next? To me, it seemed that you wanted to seduce me but were too repulsed to achieve it!"

Raistlin sighed, despondent. This argument was leading to nowhere but to further misunderstanding.

In addition, the tiger was growling threatening and throwing him the evil eye.

"I would've loved to take you but…" he stopped, horrified by what he had just babblered.

"You don't have to be ashamed, my friend," Crysania said softly, her hand comforting again. "Palin accepted it and his life got much better…"

"It's not that! I could not because I was not myself! I. Am. Not. A. Homosexual! I was under a pernicious influence," he hissed, eyeing balefully the Staff that stood against the wall. "I did not want to travel back in time to supplant Fistandantilus, nor repeat his idiotic journey towards self-destruction! I did not want to defy Takhisis and become a god," he finished with a haunted murmur. He remembered vividly the moment of awareness he had experienced in the Abyss, free for the first time of a control he had not realized he had been under, the horror of discovering that he did not know why he had done the actions that had led him to that very point.

And, above all, the horror of discovering his mind was full of dirty knowledge he had never wanted to learn.

How could he have done all those things he remembered doing but not wanting to do? Now he knew it had been the Staff's doing, but he wondered how he had managed to get free and why at that very untimely moment. And now that he thought about it, he also wondered what had happened to that knowledge that had shamed him so, since it seemed to not be in his mind anymore.

"Oh," said Crysania. Her face brightened. "Then you freed yourself from that influence and sacrificed yourself to save Krynn?"

The archmage nodded, forgetting his companion could not see his gesture. It had not been exactly like that, but what use was to disappoint the priestess now? When he had realized that he had been somehow coerced into doing that senseless plan of Fistandantilus', he had been too stunned to think properly, thus he had merely reacted. He did not imagine he had it in him, to act the tragic anti-hero. It had been the most thoughtless, foolish thing he had done in his two lives. He should have taken Crysania and left the slob locked in the Abyss with Takhisis. And maybe finish off Dalamar too, just for fun; a posh dark elf less would not have been missed. Probably only by his tailors.

"In truth, all I wanted to do was to wait for Fistandantilus to travel forward in time to take over. I was going to make him get a big surprise…" Raistlin sighed. Then, once he were whole –or as whole he had ever been anyway–, he would go and get Par-Salian. Ah, he had envisioned himself appearing amid a plenary Conclave session, the mages and wizardess of all colours fleeing in terror, and the old coot rooted in his throne-like seat in mortal fear. With a new sigh, the nostalgic archmage merely kicked with his heel the snout of the annoying oversized cat when the beast was ready to growl once again, instead of transforming it into a frog.

"So you're not." Her expression was between ashamed and hopeful.

"I am not. I know perfectly well where my preferences lay." The wizard had wanted to give an impression of harshness, but he somehow ended sounding husky. And damn his youthful body, horny.

Again that bright grin, now accompanied by a pat in his hand. "Well, since no knight has charged in to my rescue, I suppose you must be wearing red or…" Her smile turned wicked. "Ah, you must be then the 'handsome White Robe' sir Roderick kept prating about…" she snickered.

"Now I'm the chosen of Solinari, yes," Raistlin growled. Not that he had any saying in the matter. He narrowed his eyes. "You are enjoying yourself."

"About time," Crysania replied. "I'm sorry I misunderstood you, but what with your behaviour, your brother's insinuations, and the rumours."

The two last shall be dealt with, he thought. "It seems my brother has been spreading those since I was a boy." He shrugged, but remembering she could not see him, added, "It doesn't matter."

"Well, it should," the priestess protested, a frown on her dark brow. "Everyone thinks Caramon a paragon of virtue, but he's a very disturbed man. I should've suspected it when you were… put to rest, and he came to mock me. He told me that he had received a vision of you sleeping peacefully, a vision sent to stop him from killing himself."

"I assure you it was not sent by me," Raistlin stated sternly. No, he would have done the world a favour _encouraging_ the despicable swine to commit suicide. "Paladine's doing, no doubt."

"When will you learn that the gods' ways are inscrutable to us mortals?"

"That's what you clerics keep saying whenever you haven't the foggiest idea about why your patrons act idiotically," the wizard snorted.

The woman laughed softly. "Ah, here it is a glimpse of the Raistlin of old," she sighed, stroking his cheek. "Without Paladine's intervention, your nephews would have not been born. Would you have preferred that?"

"Now your god has sway over Zyvilyn's portfolio too?" he groused. "No, of course not. I'm fond of my nephews, I thought it was evident."

"Since you haven't frightened them off, it is. And now what, ah, are your plans for the future?"

"Truth to be told, I have no plans." Only half plots. "Since I left Solace with Tanin and Sturm I've been ─amusing myself, I suppose. It has been lots of fun adventuring with them and watching as they became true knights. That has allowed me to temporarily forget all the hurt suffered back at… their home," the archmage sighed. Of course, he took good care of not adding that it provided him with time to scheme his inexorable vengeance. "Nevertheless, I suppose that one day or another I'll have to reveal my true identity to the world."

"Try to not to make that day the last of Krynn," the priestess mocked. She kissed his cheek. "I like this version of yourself better than the past one. The megalomaniac homosexual was challenging, but a bit overdone. I like this Raistlin better. And remember that it doesn't matter what others say about you, you must remain strong. If you are in need of unburdening, my consulting room is always open for you, and for free." With a last lingering kiss, she left, leaving him confused.

What had she meant? He did not know, but he felt elated and did not mind. He would work it out later, after a headache remedy and a little staff-handling.

So in the clouds he was that he did not notice Tandar, eyes agleam with hate, re-entering the room and fixing him with a murderous glare.

An unholy scream tore through the festivities of Castle Uth Wistan.

* * *

The traditional rowdy celebration that typically followed the knighting of new members of the Order had been somewhat fogged by the "incident of the mage and the tiger" from which Raistlin came out just with a big scare thanks to his swift reaction, and the beast with several teeth short. It had been the talk of the island, and would be for weeks to come, so uninteresting life was there.

"How are you feeling?" Tanin asked his uncle. They were aboard a ship, on their way to Palanthas. The mighty wizard got seasick and, until the Revered Daughter had not approached him with a remedy, he had spent his hours vomiting. Now he merely lay drowsy and drugged on deck until it got dark and he crawled to his cabin.

Raistlin yawned. "Fine, only a bit sleepy now. It's dark already?"

"Yeah, it's dark. Time for the baby to go to bed," Sturm joked good-naturedly. "You aren't as pale as you were in Sancrist, or as green as you were the first day aboard."

"Well, I suppose you would have been pale if a tiger nearly had your manly parts for dinner too," growled the archwizard.

The two brothers winced simultaneously.

"I swear that beast hates you, Palin" Tanin said. "Have you seen how it glares at you? Luckily, Lady Crysania keeps it muzzled whenever she ventures outside her cabin."

"She seems real concerned about you, little brother," added the other Majere knight. "She didn't seem as worried about Sir Markharm's broken leg."

"Please, don't compare a broken leg with my reproductive organs," groused the mage.

"As if you used them for anything…" whispered Sturm.

The archmage chose to ignore that comment momentarily, taking a note on his nephew's entry.

"Of course she is more worried, I was attacked by _her _tiger after all. Sir Markharm, however, deserved it; he was drunk when he charged down the stairs." He yawned again. "I think I'll retire now to bed. Good night."

"Night, Palin."

Raistlin regarded sleepily the doors leading to the cabins. Last night he had been dragged in by one of his nephews, so he was not sure which one was the correct, until he saw the piece of parchment with his name ─well, Palin's─ in bold letters nailed to one of them.

"How thoughtful of those boys," he murmured. Without any further coherent thought, he entered the cabin. He stopped short on his tracks as a feral growl cut through the mists of drowsiness.

Quick as a fox chased by hunters, the wizard dodged the tiger's pounce, and slammed the door shut behind the animal, leaving Tandar on the corridor. Immediately after, he weaved a powerful spell to lock the door and then other to silence the roars of the enraged beast. How had that nasty piece of work got into his cabin? He had to talk seriously with Crysania about her "guide"…

"Who's there?" asked a feminine voice, the above mentioned priestess'.

Raistlin turned to regard her. She was on the bed, clothed with an extremely flimsy nightdress that insinuated more than it managed to hide. Had not anyone told her that such clothes were very inappropriate for being worn on a ship ─in fact, anywhere?

"Er… I… It seems that I've mixed-up my cabin with yours," he explained, his mouth dry and his eyes roaming over her lovely form. Although I'd swear I saw a parchment with my name in this door, he said to himself. "I'll leave now."

Nonetheless, before he had even time to think about how he was going to deal with the infuriated tiger at the other side of the door, he was tackled.

"Don't be silly, this is undoubtedly a fated encounter. We are destined to be together this night."

"Crysania, please, let me go before I ravish you!"

"That's what I want, you moron! I've been waiting for this too many years," the priestess grunted as she pulled him onto the bed.

* * *

"Isn't that the Revered Daughter's tiger? Why's it pounding her door?" Tanin asked as he and his younger brother were on their way to their cabin. "And why don't we hear its roaring? It opens its jaws enough."

"Dunno," Sturm replied, his hand reaching for his sword.

The beast, however, had no problem hearing others and regarded them with a glare that just seemed to say 'What're you doing there? Get a move on, you idiots!'

"Maybe someone is attacking Lady Crysania!" Sturm exclaimed. He would swear the oversized cat had nodded emphatically. "This stinks of evil wizardry! I think that a wicked, mad mage might have spellocked the door and taken Lady Crysania hostage! We must rush headlong into peril as the true Knights we are!" And he charged against the battered door.

"Wait Sturm! I'm not sure that… Ooops!"

* * *

There was a rumour going around among the sailors that the mage's familiar was not a common animal, but an abyssal spawn. It could not be another thing, since it had beaten single-handedly a tiger ten times its own size and a full-fledged Knight of Solamnia. The seafaring folk would have loved to throw the wizard and his familiar to the sea, as it was tradition, but they did not care to rouse the wrath of the Revered Daughter of Paladine as the two victims of the demon had somehow done. Anyway, every one of them, from the ship's boy to the captain, thought that they were doomed all along. A woman aboard was bad luck; a woman _and _a wizard was a disaster; and a woman, a wizard, _and _a demon was... well, surely Zeboim was gleefully awaiting for them in her murky depths... Therefore, the men gave a wide berth the sobbing young man crouched behind the main mast and the hissing menace he squeezed in his arms.

The 'demon' in question, none other than Salvador, was sad and angry at the same time. The former because his pet was inconsolable, weeping and moaning nonsense about 'not meant to be' and 'cursed' and 'the gods'. No amount of licking would stop the tears of his miserable pet. The poor two-legs hugged him harder, hid his damp face on his fur, and went on his lamenting. As for the later sentiment... well, his pet's brood-brother had been nosy and misguided in his intentions as his kind was wont to be, and he had interrupted that moment that should have been his pet's alone. As for the oversized pussy that dared to call himself tiger... That was different business. The cowardly feline hated his pet, and Salvador knew quite well the reason: jealousy. The tiger wanted for himself the female two-legs, even though she was not of his own breed. Two times already that dunce of a tiger had attacked his pet, and not even with getting rid of him in mind, but only maiming. Enough was enough. Salvador had decided, taking into account the treacherous nature of that vicious beast –that attacked when his pet was most vulnerable–, to tackle the issue himself.

Ignoring his pet's nonsense, the black familiar looked at the elder brood-brother, and narrowed his single yellow eye when he heard the voice of the meddler.

"Is the Revered Daughter on deck?" came a hushed voice from under the wooden floor. It rose a little to reveal the distraught and beaten-up face of the younger metal-fur.

"She's not here, brother. You can come up," the elder sighed, watching as his brother climbed painfully out of the hole on the floor. He had a black eye, the face full of scratches, and more than two or three bumps on his head.

"I didn't know a blind woman could be so accurate with her fists." The busybody glanced cautiously in Salvador's direction. "Is he angry with me?"

"Un... er, Palin?"

"No, that beastly cat of his," he whispered. As the feline hissed at him from his weeping prison, he cringed. "I take that as a "yes". I can see that our little brother is not angry, at least not yet."

"More like depressed, I would say," replied the other with a frown.

The offender sighed. "Poor Palin, he tries to prove himself he's a man –not that I think a gay is not a man, mind you– and all he achieves is an appalling failure and a big scare."

"Yes, that Tandar brute hates him. It went straight for his…" Both brood-brothers shuddered at the memory. "Luckily, Salvador came to his rescue. He taught a lesson to that nasty beast!" The elder snickered, and the little familiar did as well in his catlike way, remembering as he had cowered that big pussy.

"It's not funny," the youngest growled, his hand going to the nasty scrapes on his cheek. "That cat scratched me too! Anyway, I think that down within, Palin wanted us to interrupt what was to become an embarrassing and painful experience… just like it happened with… you know who in the past." At his companion's doubtful glance, he explained himself, "C'mon, the door opened just when I charged! And there was no one opening it, and it had been locked with magic too! What's that, if not a cry for help from our poor little brother?"

Salvador wondered how his two brood-brothers could be so wrong as for his pet's intentions. How could they mistake foul play for a plea for help? Obviously, something or someone wanted his dear two-legs out of the loving action, at least with the blind female. The foremost suspect would have been that craven, oversized kitty, but he was so hopeless at anything apart from either growling or biting your tender parts when you were completely unaware, this kind of misdeed was beyond his means. This whole situation reeked of... magic.

"I think we should've accepted Sir Roderick's invitation," the miscreant was saying. "His castle is near Throt, where we might've hunted goblins and ogres while our brother was… otherwise occupied."

"I don't think Palin is ready for Solamnic romance just yet."

Plainly, as far as his pet's brood-brothers were concerned, his two-legs was not going to father any cub for Salvador to watch over; they persisted in matching him with the wrong specimens. That was, to his eyes, unacceptable. His pet had chosen a mate, one agreeable to boot, and the resolute cat was determined to get them together –jealous tiger, idiot brothers, or opposing, mysterious forces notwithstanding.

This black tomcat always got what he wanted.

_Next: An ill-fated voyage, a horrible crew, and entertainment for the masses!_


	9. Wanna Beat?

Flaming Summer!

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd

_This chapter is dedicated to Skull Bearer, for obvious reasons. Hey, you make 'em suffer, so I do too..._

_As always, thank you reviewers for taking the trouble of R&R. _

Chapter 8: Wanna Beat?

Raistlin knew he was dreaming because he had the nagging feeling that reality was not as comfortable as the oneiric fantasy that surrounded him at the moment. However, he was in two minds to open his eyes. In his experience, even those dreams that began nice and cosy tended to become nasty nightmares: The people that welcomed him as their hero would begin to taunt and mock him; the naked nymphs that appeared to entertain him would turn into dirty dark elves with wicked intent; the sweet cookies that mommy made for him would transmute into mercenary grub… He hated grub.

Before he could decide what to do, though, a soft breath caressed his ear.

"Oh, my dear friend, I'm so sorry you are suffering so much," whispered the soft, vaguely familiar voice.

So it began nice. Opening a sleepy eye, the wizard regarded a woman in foreign red clothes. He sighed.

"If you are supposed to be a wet dream, please go away and leave me alone. I'm not in the mood for the Black Robes chaining me to the bed right now," he requested groggily, and turned on his side trying to find a more comfortable position and covered his head with the blanket.

"You wanker! I'm not a wet dream!" she shouted and dealt him a cuff.

"Ow! You are right; you are no wet dream, but a nightmare! Leave me alone! Torture me no more, I have more than enough in the waking world," he hissed, glaring at her while with a hand felt for the bump now growing on his head. "Now that I pay attention, you don't even turn me on. Those robes of yours are so outdated they would cause blindness to Dalamar."

"You moron, I'm no dream at all."

"No? Then who you are? Lunitari that had come to ask for my forgiveness?" he mocked.

"No, plonker, I'm not the goddess. I'm your staff."

Raistlin directed a concerned look at his groin, then at the woman. "Now it speaks to me? Caramon's insanity must be infectious. Look, I'm sorry for the lack of action, but…"

"Your _other_ staff, moron!"

"Oh," sighed the wizard, relieved. It had been very disturbing to think of that part of his anatomy in feminine terms. He tried to regain some of his usual composure, but it was quite difficult with him lying down on the bed, his eyes rheumy, and the bump on his head. "I suppose you have come to apologize for the dirty tricks you played on me."

"I was to, but I think I've changed my mind and I'll leave you here to snivel."

"Hey, I'm… I don't know where I am! Anyone can be wrong in my position, no?" the mage protested. "Why did you force me to do such suicide-oriented things? Killing Takhisis? I didn't even want to be a god!"

"Sorry about that," the Staff said sheepishly. She looked down to the floor. "It's in my nature, you know. Killing dragons, I mean. I'm Nectarine the Dragonslayer of the Age of Dreams."

"Nectarine? My, your parents hated you, didn't they?"

"Yes, you are right, my parents hated me, but they didn't name me. I did myself, in honour of the sweet fruit that swayed me from the evil path of destruction they followed."

"What do you have against evil paths?" inquired Raistlin in a threatening hiss.

"Not much, except for theirs. You have never caused wanton destruction to nature just for the sake of destruction as they did, or you'd have very nasty awakening one morning," she said, her lips widened in a savage grin. "Anyway, I called upon the gods to help me to fight the plague my parents and their kin posed to Krynn. The Three Cousins answered my pleas and proposed me a deal: Nuitari said I'd walk from that moment on as a mortal, Lunitari added that I'd serve as her servant, and Solinari that he'd feed me when after my death their power allowed me to carry on my quest."

"One moment! 'As a mortal'? What were you before?"

"A mighty Red Dragon," she growled.

"Let's see, to sum up, you were a vegetarian, ecologist red dragon that wanted to give mommy and daddy a sound trashing, so you asked the Idiot Three for help. They transformed you into a human Red Robe, and then into a magical staff when you died?"

"That's about it, yes," Nectarine agreed reluctantly.

"And I here thought that dragons, particularly red ones, were intelligent," the archmage snorted.

"What are you insinuating?" the dragon-turned-human-turned-staff huffed.

"Why on the abyss did you make me repeat Fistandantilus' idiotic scheme?"

"Because you could beat Takhisis! You are strong enough to, and more!" she cried, impassioned. "That would have been my highest achievement, and we might've gone against Tiamat, and then…"

"Hey, hey, you mad stick, shut up! No more, you hear me? I'll strike down dragons whenever I feel like it, but not because you want to quench your insatiable thirst for draconic blood."

"But I want one now and then," she pouted.

"I'll think about it. Now leave me be, I'm… tired I suppose," Raistlin ordered. "And don't even think about giving me nasty awakenings or I'll resurrect Immolatus just to be done with you!"

Nectarine the Dragonslayer Staff of Magius huffed annoyed at his owner's back. "We'll see."

* * *

When Raistlin woke up, it was to a dizzy world that tasted of cotton, looked lurching, and stank of vomit. Nothing of these agreed with his already upset stomach, and the splitting headache did not help either.

"I think he's coming to his senses," thundered a voice, a painful version of Sturm's.

"Not so loud, please," he whined, opening with caution his eyes. Light stabbed his mind as soon as his lids rose a bit. "Oooooo…"

After several gruelling minutes, the wizard managed to sit up, fall from the bunk he had been placed in, and vomit all over his robes, all without opening an eye.

"You're a mess," sighed Tanin. As far as the archmage was concerned, the young man sighed too loudly.

"I wouldn't if you had not switched my elven wine for that dreadful poison. I thought you liked me, Tanin, but now I know you hate me and want me dead," he whispered mournfully.

"We would've lost the bet if you hadn't taken part," protested Sturm, and groaned as his own voice hammered into his head. "In the end, we lost because of you anyway. You didn't even hold one swig; you tasted the dwarf spirits and collapsed in a heap."

"You might have warned me I was going to drink liquefied hellfire!" spat the mage. He took his head in his hands. "If the world is so rough with my eyes closed, I can't imagine how much so it will be with them open."

"We are in some kind of ship, Palin," explained Tanin. "And you're not poisoned, but hung-over."

"An experience I wouldn't have cared to experience," growled the elder Majere. "What are we doing in a ship?"

"Dunno," was the unison answer.

"We think they've a dragon up there," warned Sturm. "Hear that? It sound's like a black dragon."

They were right, the sound reminded him of Onyx spewing her acid breath at Riverwind in Xak Tsaroth. But what would a dragon do in a ship? Acid and wood did not mix well, and he was not sure the stinking black dragons would be friends with water. "We'll take care of that little detail when… I feel a little more human than just right now," he suggested.

Some indefinite time later, he managed to open his eyes, bringing up into a bucket immediately after that. He hated ships. Now, he had to deal with not only hangover, but also seasickness. He felt knackered, fitful sleep notwithstanding, but he had the impression it was not merely due to these two ailments he was suffering; there was something else. However, he was at a loss for thoughts. It was as though something integral was missing, but his magic, all his limbs and bodily parts, and even that pesky staff of his were there. It was during this inventory he realised someone had taken from him his spell components, his dagger, his scrolls, his books and well, everything except his clothes –all pockets now empty– and the Staff of Magius, which stood upright in the air near the bunk. (Since the Majere brothers were used to the artefact's weird behaviour, they were not surprised at this.) Nevertheless, the loss of material property had never been important for the wizard, so even if incredibly annoying, he was sure this was not what affected him thus.

As far as his nephews were concerned, he saw they were faring a little better; they were only a bit green around the gills and did not vomit anymore. He envied them their endurance.

A bit more focused, he got up from the hammock. After tentatively keeping his balance and not falling again, he approached to the closed door of the bare cabin.

"We must be prisoners of the dwarf and his gnome cutthroats from the tavern," Tanin said. "I bet the door is bolted."

Raistlin studied the abovementioned door, and declared, "I don't think so. It would be extremely difficult for the door to be locked when someone has pulled out the lock." He pointed to the hole in the wood. "Let's get to the bottom of the matter."

Tanin held him by the arm. "I think we should go first, _brother_. You look like you don't remember your own name, much less any spell, so…"

The wizard felt warmed at his nephew's concern for him. With the so-called Companions it had been quite the opposite; "Let the mage go first, with any luck the creepies will eat him," would have growled Flint or Sturm Brightblade. How charming and amiable those two had been… Thus, in their inane outings to 'learn the ways of life', he had always been sent to the front line, with Caramon hard on his heels, of course; that would allow him to 'save' his baby brother, like that time with the nymphs… The archmage had not wanted to be saved from them!

"So it's logical to let you both to go up first, confront unarmed the dragon, and be melted by the beast?" the archmage countered. "I, however, have my Staff, which was created to fight them."

"Yes, you have a weapon. Much good it will do when you vomit your insides in front of the monster. You really look terrible, Palin," counter-attacked the older nephew. "Let us assess the situation first, that will allow you some time to think what to do."

Tanin was right, the archwizard was not feeling well in the least; all he wanted was to curl into a ball of misery and snivel to himself until it went away. That nagging feeling of loss was like a toothache. He was not overly worried about his nephews' safety anyway. He was sure there was no dragon; otherwise, Nectarine would already have urged him to attack the poor beast. As it was, the Staff did not even stir. Nevertheless, he had a very bad feeling about their marine adventure; he had discovered someone had taken from him his woollen socks, the black ones with embroidered fireballs. Sock robbery never bode well.

His misgivings proved true when they reached the deck, a deck not guarded by a dragon, but full of the most dreaded creatures on Krynn: Kender.

Raistlin ran to the rail and vomited.

Tanin and Sturm watched the bustle on deck with open-mouthed awe, at least until they were nearly washed off by a sudden shower of salty water, decapitated by a wild yardarm, and battered by a fish rainfall. Wiping their stinging eyes, the two men regarded the crew manning the weird ship, all of them hooting with laughter as they tried to catch the slippery animals. They heard yelling and cursing, and saw a dwarf tied up with ropes to what they thought was the mainmast.

"End this trav'sty now, yeh scoundrels," was shouting the dwarf, whose clothes had been foppish long ago before he had been subjected to multiple seawater and fish showers.

"Hey, you the dwarf that dared us," said Sturm, squinting in the sunlight.

"Halt, you landlubbers! Don't touch our prisoner or else," came a shrill and all too known voice from the aftercastle.

"Uncle Tas!" exclaimed the two knights, and winced.

An old kender came closer to the 'prisoners' on one feet and one wooden leg that he did not need at all. He moved the patch over his left eye to cover the right one as he prodded his parrot, perched on his shoulder, to caw "Treasures ahoy!"

Meanwhile, the mage went on purging his empty stomach. Abducted by kender. Even worse, by kender captained by Tasslehoff Burrfoot. He must make sure no one learned of this indignity. If only he could remember that chain lightning spell…

"Welcome to the Miracle, lads," said the smiling kender. "Where do you hail from?"

"A cabin downstairs," replied a confused Tanin. "We thought we'd been kidnapped by a dwarf and his crew of gnomes."

"Oh, them. They are in the hold, those scumbags. You see, I and me mates here took a cool course on piracy in Saifhum and, when we heard about a gnomic ship setting sails towards Lunitari we joined in the fun. The captain, this dour dwarf here, refused to take us in, so we mutinied. We captured the ship and now I'm the new captain, but we haven't managed to make it take off…"

"I'm sure your 'men' knew we were downstairs; all our belongings are missing," Raistlin groaned from the rail, hoping to stop the flood of words.

The kender captain gave him a pitying glance. "Palin, you look… green. Not feeling well, lad?"

A dry heave was the only answer.

"Uncle Tas, I don't think this ship was headed for the red moon. I thought that was a tale about Sturm Brightblade and Aunt Kitiara," the younger knight commented. "By the way, where's the dragon?"

The kender crew looked around excitedly, just expecting an unsuspecting beast to appear.

"What dragon? There's no dragon aboard, not that we've found at least," Tas replied. "Oh, do you mean those bubbling sounds! That's the ship working. Weird, isn't it?"

"So, are we in a gnomish ship?" the mage asked from the rail he held on. At the affirmative –and gleeful– answer, he groaned in a low, despaired voice, "I just want to be put out of my misery. Now I'm sure Paladine didn't forgive and rescue me from the Dark Queen; this is one of her worst insidious punishments." And dry-heaved again.

"Stop feelin' sorry fer yerself an' face yer duty, Guardian!" growled the dwarf. "Takhisis doesn' 'ave imagination enough ter devise sumthin' this devious!"

Raistlin groaned and wished himself to faint in that dramatic way he had perfected through the years. A new shower of water and fish made him reconsider this option, since he did not want to die drowned in a deck full of thieving kender. That kind of death was extremely embarrassing.

"And what is my duty, according to you?" he asked.

"First an' foremost, untyin' me."

"I don't think so. I prefer you tied up rather than tricking them into poisoning me," came the mage's hissing reply. Sturm was ready to protest their innocence –they had not poisoned him– but his brother stopped him with a stern shake of his soaked head. "Explain yourself, dwarf, then I might free you."

The prisoner shrugged. "Miiro, yeh must rescue the Greygem," he said gravely.

"Of course," Raistlin drawled, sneer in place. "Now tell me again why I should untie a crazed dwarf."

"What's a Miiro?" asked Sturm in a whisper to his brother.

"No clue."

"Yeh'ave a contract ter comply with," growled the short man, his eyes almost disappearing under his frown.

Raistlin smirked. "I didn't see anything about the Greygem in it."

"Its theft affects the Greater Balance, don' yeh see, yeh chump?"

"No, I don't see," replied the archmage attentively studying his nails with bored air. "And don't think for a moment that insulting me will do you any favours in recruiting my help. Anyway, if it has been stolen, you should ask your little friends here. I'm sure they know its whereabouts."

The former captain of the Miracle grumbled under his breath, no doubt cursing the stubborn mage in colourful dwarven terms. "Yeh'll regret yer refusal ter me call fer help, wizard. Right." His eyes glinted maliciously. "Yeh hear me ov'r there?" he said to the empty air. "This Guardian here's useless, yeh hear me? Shouldn' he be punished with tha' funny armour o' his? He's a slacker an'…"

At these words, Raistlin paled. He had to stop the dwarf before whomever he was talking to agreed that he was not complying with the damned contract. Unluckily for him, his younger nephew had also decided to step in.

Sturm, even if not gifted with his uncle's brainiac mind, had a fine one working under his auburn mop of hair. As a matter of fact, had he been consulted on the matter, he would have been able to solve several tricky issues of philosophic and metaphysical matter single-handedly. That is, if he hadn't also been cursed with a kender-like attention span and a tendency to overload whenever the input saturated his mind, as it did at the moment. The Greygem? he was thinking. Wasn't it the artefact that had cursed Krynn with kender? What was a Miiro? Had Palin found a job and not told them? Weren't wizards forbidden to wear armour? And why did his little brother seem to have taken a crash course on snarkiness? Was there a Greater Balance? Did that mean that there was a Lesser Balance too? Did that mean that there were other gods besides the ones they knew? What were the gods in fact...? So many questions were overburdening his bright but flimsy mind; he had to stop them from coming to allow him time to absorb them. Usually, he would have knocked out the source of such overload, but taking into account that one was his little brother and the other an unarmed dwarf tied to a mast, he decided on the diplomatic way.

"Stop!" he roared, then winced and cursed himself for being as idiotic as to forget he was still hung-over.

Next to him, brave Tanin cringed in pain. Even the kender and the dwarf seemed taken aback.

Raistlin merely fainted.

Drifting between wakefulness and unconsciousness, Raistlin felt that missing part of him was within his grasp. He was very near to the source of such distressing feeling. He reached out his hand…

"Hey, don't play hard to get, Uncle," said a voice and the archwizard was shaken into consciousness. "You've been out for more than one hour. It's time for you to wake up; I don't know how much longer that door will hold on the crew."

Damn, he had lost it! The rude treatment and the feeling of danger cleared his senses, snatching away the little piece of knowledge that had almost been his for the taking. Opening his eyes, he saw his younger nephew sitting next to his hammock. The young man was watching him carefully, hand still on his shoulder, awe and amazement warring in his reddened eyes.

"Uh… What…?" The mage reached up to hold his head in his hand, only to see the golden glint of his cursed skin. "Damned dwarf!" He looked up at Sturm.

"Don't worry, Uncle Raistlin, Tanin told me your story. And Palin's, as you knew it," said the young man soberly. "I'm sad for him. I was a dolt for not realising how father and mother really treated him –and you. I'm proud he was such a good boy 'till the end. And I'm glad you're here for us, even if you're such a miser as far as expending money on booze and grub is concerned." He smiled. "No wonder you're so thin."

"Well, after your mother tried to feed me up into bloating away, I feel sick whenever I think of food," sighed the wizard. "And I don't want you to end like your father in the drinking department."

"You appreciate us, don't you?" marvelled the warrior.

Raistlin simply shrugged. Sitting up precariously in the hammock, he pointed the barricade against the door of the cabin. "Why that?"

Sturm expression turned anxious. "When you fainted… you also turned golden, so everybody onboard recognised you…"

"...The kender included" finished the archmage in a horrified murmur.

"And they wanted to see you close up. We managed to extricate you from them before they sheared your hair. Do you know it's in fashion to keep the beard or hair of famous people as souvenir in Kendermore?"

"From kender, I wouldn't be surprised," Raistlin growled. "Do not fret, nephew of mine, I can defend myself from hair-thieving kender."

While Sturm took away the barricade, the archwizard tried to cast a repulsion spell –one spell Tas was well acquainted with–, but had to give up since he was missing the necessary components. For a moment, he thought he was going to regret his claim about handling the little men, then decided to take a more physical approach as his Staff was at hand.

"Why could you not be a kenderslaying artefact?" he murmured under his breath as he eyed the golden tint of his skin with distaste. It had never bothered him before; quite the opposite, that weird coloration had helped to increase his aura of mystery and otherworldliness, although right now it only meant trouble. And he was sure the kender would not be as eager to get his hair as they were if it was auburn. No one would believe them if they told it was Raistlin's and it was not white. Not completely sure it would work, he willed his cursed 'armour' away. To his relief, it faded out.

"Uncle, Dougan, the dwarf, told us that you must help him to regain the Greygem or the world will come to an end," explained the knight as he pushed aside several barrels.

"So he calls himself Dougan, eh? The world coming to an end… nonsense!" muttered the mage disdainfully. "That is what all of them say when they want us to get them off the hook…"

After a gruelling climbing to the deck that left behind at least two unconscious kender, Raistlin –auburn mane still intact– went to the aftercastle where the dwarf and Tanin were trying to make sense of what it was supposed to be the helm.

"I wonder why they didn't shear your beard, Reorx!" spat Raistlin.

"Reorx!" exclaimed both human warriors.

Eyeing the greedy looks of the kender crew, the dwarven god turned to the smirking wizard. "Tattletale!"

"Me? You were the one that blew up my cover! Hear me out, I am not going to help you! I am sick of you all meddling in my affairs! All I wanted was to sleep in peace. Since you did not allow that, let me live in peace at least!"

"Yeh 'ave a duty ter carry out, Guardian! The Greygem…"

"It's your responsibility. You lost it again, you get it," sneered the wizard.

Instead of the angry growl the archmage had been expecting, the ousted captain snorted what might be a laugh and looked up at the human with shining, calculating eyes. "I know sumthing yeh don', boy."

"Probably, dwarf. Your kind always knows something we do not, mainly because it is of your doing. Now, farewell, godling. Enjoy the company of your past clangers' results."

* * *

Darkness surrounded the three men as magic landed them delicately on solid ground. At least that was what Raistlin thought. His nephews' opinion on the matter was likely very different, since none of them had ever travelled on the wings of a spell, and that did disagree with their un-wizardly stomachs.

"Shirak," murmured the archmage, amid the sound of retching. With a grimace, he thought Tanin and Sturm were sullying his sacred laboratory's floor with their vomit, but as he remembered that his own –and his blood– had also stained it long ago, he decided he would let it go this time. The poor boys seemed to be paying for their sacrilege hard enough; both were an unhealthy shade of green. "Um… Do you feel… er… better already?"

"This is your vengeance, isn't it, uncle Raistlin?" Sturm groaned. "I swear that I'll never make fun of you again when you get seasick."

"Your sickness is not of my doing, at least not intentionally. I think it's because you are not in the habit of teleporting and, sometimes, magic tends to act nastily on those of no magical nature."

"Remind me to never trust a magical weapon then," Tanin growled.

"I'll do that," said his uncle with a smirk. "Now come, I want to see if my servants still bake my favourite cookies."

When Raistlin opened the door, there was a burst of light and sound, and little pieces of coloured parchment floated in the air, around them. At the other side, there was a horrible, very mixed group of undead. Wichtlyns shacked rattles, ghosts catcalled, crawling hands beat tambourines, and ghouls and ghasts threw streamers. Two shadows held a colourful banner in which "WELCOME BACK, BOSS!" could be read in bold letters. The leader of the merry band was a spectre that had a key hanging around his insubstantial neck and who came forward to bow to the archmage.

"Welcome home, Master!" wailed happily the undead –those who could speak, that is.

Even the snarky archwizard could not be unmoved by such show of appreciation. He rubbed surreptitiously his teary eyes. "Oh, my boys, I'm also glad to be back."

"We knew you couldn't be dead, Master," cried a ghoul. "You know, it's a case of the proverbial…"

"Shut up, you dolt!" warned a fellow ghast with a hiss and an elbow to its ribs. "You want to end pulling up the weeds of the Grove with Rannoch?"

"Yeh look well, boss," said the spectre in order to distract the archmage's attention from its fellow's blunder. "Yeh seem ter 'ave put sum fat on yer bones an' light in yer eyes."

"Um, yes. What are you doing with the key of my lab around your neck?" asked Raistlin, frowning.

"Soddin' elf ordered me ter guard t'door. I s'ppose 'e didn't want yeh ter come back, but we knew yeh'd make it."

"Then who's looking after my…"

"Shalafi!" A wailing with a living quality to it cut him short. Shoving undead and living aside, a dark-robed figure made his way towards his master and threw himself to his knees before Raistlin. "You must put an end to it! Please, please!"

The archmage sneered, ready to chastise his former apprentice for his effrontery; he had told the dark elf in distinct terms he would remove the curse when he felt the pointy-eared peacock had earned it. However, the pathetic scene of the imploring Black Robe made –inexplicably– his heart bleed, and he could not help but think the elven mage's features were rather handsome, with his bright eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and moist lips… Shocked by those thoughts and the strange –and wholly inappropriate– images that shot through his mind, Raistlin mentally chastised himself. Where did those came from? He did not even stand the snivelling coward!

"What are you bawling about, you dolt?" he snapped, annoyed by the immediate pang of regret he felt upon saying such sharp words.

"My reputation as ladies' man is completely ruined! Jenna has dumped me and now she threatens to sue me for lying about my past!"

"And that should matter to me, how?" Raistlin drawled. It was hard for him to remain aloof before the imploring elf though.

Tanin, frowning, moved forward. "You shouldn't be so harsh, Uncle, after your history with him." The undead nodded sagely.

The archmage regarded them as if they had lost their minds. "What history?"

"That's what I mean, shalafi! Everybody is convinced we… we… I never did that! Never! I couldn't have known you at the time!"

"You know, Uncle, you're as bad as they say, treating so cruelly your former lover," added Sturm in a chiding tone.

The wizard blinked in bewilderment. "Uh?"

"Everybody thinks we were something of an item when you were young!" bemoaned Dalamar. "And… and I remember things that I know I never did! I'm not bisexual!"

As the elf uttered those anguished words, Raistlin felt the thoughts –memories, more like– he had been trying to apprehend but had stubbornly eluded him hiding in the darkest recesses of his mind coming forward with a vengeance. They were recollections of a past he had not remembered never before, a past where Dalamar was the lord of his heart, where he had loved and been loved… by a handsome, brave, and arrogant dark elf far different from the fop now kneeled before him.

"You also have those memories!" gasped his apprentice. The horrified elf proceeded to cry his eyes out.

"But this cannot be! I did not have them yesterday!" protested the archmage.

Tanin regarded him thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, I think you're right. I don't remember being so sure you both had been boyfriends." The two mages glowered at him at hearing the last term.

"Yeah," added Sturm. "I remember fearing that Master Dalamar had a thing for Palin, but I would've been truly afraid if I had known the elf was a cradle snatcher."

"I would hardly be such a thing even if these recollections were true," snapped the Black Robe with a hateful look at the younger knight. "My dear Raistlin was a grown man when I seduced him," he sighed wistfully, then punched himself, horrified.

The younger knight murmured something about baby brothers/uncles and perverted elves.

"I suspect foul play," muttered the archwizard, ignoring his apprentice's disgraceful words. He could hardly punish the elf for his misplaced yearning when he himself felt the same. "Dougan! This is what he meant! That… that… dwarf!" he hissed, enraged.

Repressing the desire to kiss the delectable –idiot, idiot!– elf, he commanded him sharply to get up. "Prepare my quarters and have some of my favourite cookies backed, we will be back the moment we have seen to this matter."

Dalamar looked at him with adoring eyes. "You'll solve this, won't you, shalafi? I'll warm your bed for you when you return… Euh… I mean, I'll have your bed warmed!" Before the white-robed mage had time to reply, the distressed dark elf took to his heels down the stairs and into the darkness of the tower.

Raistlin shook his head and reined in his unwanted desire to chase the Head of the Black Robes and allow him to warm his bed. With a sigh that sounded like a growl, he gestured to his nephews to follow him back into the laboratory. He walked over a dark corner, towards a huge trunk. After opening the seemingly heavy lid with ease, he leant forward, rummaging inside. After a while, he nearly disappeared into the trunk in his eagerness to reach his prize.

Whereas the mage was ransacking for whatever he was looking for, the two knights looked around in rattled apprehension. The laboratory was every bit as forbidding as they had been told it was, crammed with glass jars full of bodily parts of unknown beings, shelves bursting of books covering a significant part of the walls, the table of black stone nearly crowding one half of the room. The thick dust made it even gloomier; no one knew what sorcery, darkness, time, and grime might have bred while Raistlin had been gone. Overall, the room emanated the feeling it was a very magical place, therefore they felt quite ill at ease.

The grinning guardian staring friendly at them from the door did not help to assuage their discomfort.

"A-ha!" exclaimed the current owner of the daunting place. "Here it is." He lifted from inside the truck a strange gold-and-crimson helmet, then he pulled with all his forces and tried to take out the rest of an assembled armour suit. He managed with the help of his nephews.

"What strange armour! It's heavier than any other I seen before!" Tanin commented, eyeing appreciatively the suit. Its manufacture was also peculiar, very fine, but outlandish.

"I wonder what's this," his brother pointed to a round, darkened area in the palm of the heavy-looking gauntlet.

"Oh, I seem to recall these were the outlets of the repulsive rays or something like that. I never finished reading the instructions," explained Raistlin. He pressed a part of the breastplate and the armour… opened with a hiss, as if it were stripping itself down, but only just to allow someone to enter it. There was strange, soft, coloured light and weird sounds coming from the inside.

"You said magic could be nasty towards non-magic-users, Uncle Raistlin," said the elder knight, taking a step back. He pulled back his brother, who had leaned forward to better see what was inside the suit.

"This is no magic, Nephew," explained the archamage as he eyed his old favourite chair with a grimace of disgust. A wave of his hand and one short spell later, he sat on the good-as-new seat. "Some time ago, I dabbled into summoning beings from other planes. In one occasion, my magic brought here the wearer of this armour. I cannot remember his name, but I recall he was a drunkard and he suggested exchanging the suit for a bottle of my best wine. He told me he was tired of avenging people or something along these lines. So I gave him the bottle, and he taught me the basics about the armour, then left."

"And what became of him?" Sturm asked.

Raistlin shook his head. "I don't know. I was too entertained with the novelty of the suit at the moment to notice his departure. Now that I think about it, I don't recall my servants reporting anyone leaving the Tower at the time… so he possibly died in his way out the Grove," he murmured pensively, then brightened. "But don't worry about him, he was so drunk at that stage it was likely that he didn't suffer at all. My retainers are shift in dealing death to those who haven't roused my wrath."

"Good to know it," Tanin muttered. Louder, he added, "I thought your… creepies didn't attack those who left the Tower."

"Only if I say so," replied the mage. His malevolent smirk made the brothers shudder, and he laughed openly at their alarmed expressions. "None of that now, my dear nephews. I have mended my ways, haven't I?"

The two brothers joined him with their own nervous laughter.

"Well, let's find Dalamar." He nearly bit his tongue at the longing tone he had used to pronounce the name. "He will provide you, Sturm, with accommodations while Tanin and I go to regain the Greygem."

"That means that I won't be coming back to the Miracle with you?" asked the younger knight. At his uncle's affirmative answer, he uttered a loud "yippee!" and laughed in delight.

"I thought you wanted to come with us," commented the archmage, a frown on his brow.

"Not if that means I have to be teleported back!" said the warrior.

Tanin, who had paled at the reminder of what awaited him, looked at the sighing wizard. "Dougan said the Graygem was in a tropical island, and that we'd fry in our armours. This one is also of metal…"

"It has internal refrigeration, I caught a nasty cold trying it. Don't worry, I'll teach you to activate the help mode later.

The warrior groaned in dismay.

* * *

"I hate teleportation," Tanin growled as he purged again his empty stomach. Luckily for him, his new armour had internal cleaning system so that he did not drown in his own vomit.

"I agree," groaned Dougan as he did the same as the human, sans the armour. He threw a poisonous glare to the unruffled wizard that, smirk in his lips, studied absently the surroundings where they had appeared.

"Would you have preferred to berth close to the beach, allowing thus the pesky kender to land as well? Since that thing doesn't have any boat, we're safe here from their thieving hands." Raistlin pointed the distant Miracle, marvelling at the fact that such a… craft could stay afloat. Maybe it was that Zeboim, the wild queen of the seas, did not want that kind of junk to soil her seabed.

The Majere's stay at the Tower of High Sorcery had been brief, which agreed with the archmage. The closeness of Dalamar had been driving him round the bend, quickly eroding his willpower to the point he almost did not give a damn and took up the former steamy relationship that had never taken place. Or that he tried to assure himself over and over. As time passed, however, the past he regarded as true became blurrier and vaguer, sharpening his sordid history with the elf. Getting away as farther as possible allowed him to think as the burning desire dulled into a grievous longing.

He had been right. Dougan knew what the ailment they suffered was, but had been adamant in remaining tight-lipped about it until Raistlin helped him to obtain back the Greygem. Angry and aching, the archwizard knew better than threatening the avatar of Reorx while aboard a gnomish ship full of kender. With his luck, he would be stuck with them forever and ever. Therefore, he had agreed to help the dwarf.

"I thought the god of dwarves would be more resilient than that," commented Tanin as Dougan wiped his lips with the sleeve of his ruined fancy dress coat.

"Magic an' dwarves, ev'n godly ones, don't mix well, lad," grumbled the short man.

Raistlin came down the tree he had climbed in order to see where they should head for. Usually, he would have made a show of pondering over the matter, researching into arcane tomes, and using foreign magic to solve it, thus increasing his aura of mystery and erudite reputation. However, since he was in a hurry to get rid of those unwanted feelings, he decided to dispense with the act and to resort directly to common –and quicker– means. "We must go that way."

"Have you felt the magic of the Greygem, Uncle?" The voice of the younger Majere came out inhuman from inside the golden and crimson helmet.

The mage, already dripping with sweat in his now dirty robes, shook his head. He would have loved to strip off the wet garments, whatever to feel a dash of fresh air over his overheated skin, but he was too shy, even only in the presence of his nephew and an entity he was sure had witnessed worse things. Anyway, he was not sure nudity would provide him any relief in this damned hot, humid isle. "The isle is supersaturated with magic, so trying to pinpoint a higher concentration is useless. There's a high tower that way though."

"Oh."

"I don't see any track," Dougan growled. If Raistlin felt stifled by his simple linen robe, he guessed the dwarf, still wearing his full, faded regalia, was close to collapsing. It seemed that Reorx –or this incarnation of his– was even shier than him. No wonder, with that fashion sense.

"Tanin will open one for us," the wizard said with a half smile.

"But, Uncle, I don't have any blade to make our way."

"You simply walk on, Nephew."

The knight did, the powerful armour he wore beating a path through the undergrowth, crushing thickets and trees equally under his heels. In no time, they crossed the jungle, leaving a clear track behind and exterminating several species unknown to the rest of Krynn, to make it to the tower roughly in the centre of the island.

Raistlin had thought the Tower of the Stars in Silvanesti had been hideous after Lorac persisted in transforming his realm into an undead festival, but it was nothing compared to the construction gruesomely twisted by the magic of the Graygem. It reminded him of the building style they had in the Abyss. The humongous door was as unwelcoming as the rest of the tower, changing its form every now and then.

"Tanin, blast the door away with one of the repulsive rays, as we tested with Dalamar's mannequins," ordered the elder Majere.

"Aye, Uncle!" The knight raised his gauntleted hand, pointing his palm to what his uncle insisted that was a door and issued the mental command. Nothing happened though. "Uh, Uncle Raistlin. It doesn't work anymore. Here it reads 'out of battery', whatever it means. Um, it read 'low battery' before, I wonder why it has changed..."

"Damn, the energy that drives the suit has run out. Good timing!" snorted the archwizard and helped his nephew to come out inside the armour, now too heavy for the young man to move.

Dougan eyed the mage condescendingly. "Maybe yeh should've recharged it?"

"I wonder how I could. I don't even know what a socket is."

Before the dwarf could reply, the doors opened and the head of a woman came out. She glanced at them, her eyes stopping briefly at both humans appreciatively and completely disregarding Dougan, and grinned.

"Hey, girls, the strippers are here!"

* * *

"I don't think this is a good idea, mage," whispered Dougan to the human next to him. They were off stage, hidden by the curtains, glancing dismayed at Raistlin's nephew dancing around a pole amid the whistling and cheering of a legion of eager women.

"Well, I haven't heard any better from you yet," hissed the wizard trying to devise a plan to get the Graygem those perverted women had hung from the ceiling so the magical stone spun around itself reflecting the light from the blue-flamed torches before Tanin ran out of garments to take off. He shuddered at the thought; that would mean he would have to go on stage. "Magic doesn't work properly under the influence of that damned rock and we are far outnumbered. Our only chance is to snatch it up and scarper. Jump higher, Tanin, you're almost there," he whispered loudly to his nephew.

The knight cast him a desperate glance.

"By Takhisis's fillings, he can't reach it!"

"Hey, here you are," said a sultry voice from behind the two horrified spectators. "Get ready, handsome, it's your turn next. I hope your number is as good as your pal's. He's driving them crazy. I don't know why you brought with you this ugly dwarf though. Perhaps he's your agent?"

Raistlin, recognising the obscenely dulcet tones, tried to hide his face behind his auburn locks and turn away from the speaker. "That's right," he said gruffly, trying to alter his usual soft voice.

Dougan frowned, looking up from the blushful mage to the skimpy-attired, bat-winged woman speaking to them. "Um, yeah, Dougan Redhammer, agent o' strippers. Pleased ter meet yeh."

"I'm Barbie, owner of Gargath Luxury Resort. I'm sorry I couldn't welcome you, I was a mite busy abducting a teenage girl from one of the local villages."

"Abductin'?" The dwarf's frown nearly touched his beard.

The busty woman laughed airily. "I know how it sounds, but it's not like that. You see, the former owner of the tower ─a horrible old man named Gargath─ had taken prisoner all the women of the isle to entertain himself. They rebelled against the fart and locked him away, then decided to keep the place for themselves and don't go back to their enslaving life as wives. When I arrived here, however, they were bored out of their minds, so I offered them a deal they couldn't refuse and turned that dreary place into this haven of entertainment. As a girl is beginning to reach adulthood, I rescue her from men's clutches and bring her here for her to join her fellow women."

The avatar of Reorx looked up at the enterprising demon in amazement. He was to say something, but a mighty uproar shook the walls and a stark naked Tanin covering himself the best he could ran away offstage shouting, "Please, ladies, let me go! I mustn't break my vows!"

Barbie turned to the wizard, grabbing him by the arm as he seemed ready to dash after the other human. "Your turn, heart-throb... Hey, you're my former master! How sweet, coming back to your loving succubus..."

"No way!" Raistlin shrieked, slapping away the arms that tried to enfold him. In his hurry to get away from Barbie, he stepped back on the stage.

A hullabaloo of whistles, cheers, and shouts assaulted him immediately. Deafened, blinded by the sharp sparkles of light on the Greygem, he turned around, to face the leering stares of what he thought hundreds of females. He tried to move, to get away from the stage, but he was paralysed with fright. He felt his face burn with shame, and his limbs heavy and quivering at the same time. This was one of his worst nightmares coming true.

"Hey, wizard, show us what you wear under your robes!" shouted an anonymous voice. A chorus of 'yes' and 'yeah' followed.

"He's a shy one!" shouted a voice. "Here, this will help you!" A coin landed near his boot.

This was shameful! The coin was not even a steel piece. He had to do something, anything, or that throng of women would got bored of not getting what they wanted and would take the matter in their hands. But he was unable to move. He felt like crying and calling his sweet Dalamar for help, not caring how wrong he would have considered that thought merely a few minutes ago.

The Greygem glinted malevolently well above his head, out of reach, and Raistlin felt it inflaming the audience. The damned rock knew who he was and what he had come to do here, and apparently did not like it. With a mighty effort of will, he summoned his staff to his hand, spurred into action by the approaching hands. Maybe he could bash the Greygem hard enough to make it drop. Or not.

"Look, he's no White Robe!"

"He's Raistlin Majere!"

Looking down to his hands he realised the damned lump of stone had made his golden shade appear. Cursing in every language he knew, the archmage tried to get rid of the paws that grabbed his robes and dodge those approaching as he brandished the Staff of Magius. He had to strike!

"We'll cure you of your queerness, hottie!"

The roaming hands were dragging him down, away from the twinkling stone. He felt its rejoicing as the Staff was snatched from his fist, a sharp ache in his temples drowning the gleeful cheers and gasps of delight. He also felt his robes ripping, but he could not see anything, he was suffocating, buried under a sea of hands.

"Uncle!" he heard, far, far away.

The Greygem sparkled again, and Raistlin felt himself lose his grasp on consciousness.

Dalamar... was his last thought before darkness claimed him.

* * *

Tanin surveyed the destruction that swooped on Gargath Luxury Resort. Of what had been a mighty but horrendous tower, only a decapitated and ruined building remained, and he was glad to see it razed. In the distance, he also saw the hole bored into the former inactive volcano, now awakened again from its age-old slumber. It made known its fury bellowing smoke and shaking the earth.

The knight wore a leopard loincloth, the only article of clothing he had managed to salvage from the dressing rooms. However, he was in no danger of being assaulted by lecherous women, not anymore; all of them had fled in terror upon the destruction of their haven and the disclosure of its ruin's architect. He missed the feminine attention, though, even if it had been almost the death of his uncle. Looking down, he glanced at Raistlin, who studied the scene with a pensive frown on his scratched face.

The new attire of the archwizard did not go well with his male build, hanging too loosely around his shoulders and not covering much of his thin torso. It was Barbie's black robe ─now white with a dark hemline─ which he had wrenched away from her. Anyway, the succubus had seemed not to have any objection to roam naked. Quite the opposite, she had tried to use it to seduce the worn out mage, but he had pushed her away with threats of striking her down with his staff. The pouting demon had snarled something about "sodding fairy wizards" and left for the closest village.

"It's a pity the Greygem got away amidst the confusion," sighed the younger Majere.

At his side, his uncle snorted. "I don't give a damn about that treacherous stone."

Dougan, eyes fixed on the volcano, growled an unintelligible comment.

"You were very lucky Tas and his kender crashed into the tower just then, Uncle."

"Too lucky, I must say," grumbled the dwarf. "Too much coincidence. An' I'd swear t'ship didn't fly 'afore." He narrowed his eyes.

"I couldn't care less," said Raistlin. "Just tell me what you know about this thing my apprentice and me are suffering and let us be gone."

For a moment, it seemed that Dougan would refuse, but then nodded reluctantly. "Yeh did yer part o' the agreement, e'en if we didn't manage. Alright, yeh go to Astinus' an' ask 'im."

"What! That's everything you have to say? You... you... cheating scoundrel!" the wizard spat in anger. "I would have gone to the Library anyway! Now I remember why I hate the gods so much. I wish your forge gets invaded by an army of kender!" The seething archmage and his nephew disappeared, taken away by the magic of the former.

Alone in this site of desolation, the avatar of Reorx sighed. He had lost not a bet, but two. Again.

He wondered if Sargonass would be willing to bet on how long took a crew of kender to sink an island.

_Next: Sturm has a big problem, and Salvador a plan! An ugly truth is revealed and Tandar's fate too!_


End file.
